


The Trickster Castiel

by intotheruins



Series: The Trickster Verse [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: All the sex in this is non-penetrative, Angst and Humor, Animal Transformation, Bisexual Dean, Canon Divergence, Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge 2015, Elemental Magic, Exhibitionism, First Time, Frottage, Gabriel as Loki, Humor, M/M, Magic, Mythology - Freeform, Non-Penetrative Sex, Outdoor Sex, Paganism, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rituals, Sex Magic, Soul Bond, Tricksters, also known as Pan, brief Castiel/Gabriel, just in case that's important to anyone, season 5, the horned god
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-10
Updated: 2015-11-10
Packaged: 2018-04-30 02:31:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 40,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5147006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intotheruins/pseuds/intotheruins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“You chose free will, bro! You don't need a higher power! And you know why?”</i>
</p><p>   <i>The figure steps around to face Castiel. Tawny eyes flare with grace, with magic, with something else Castiel can't identify.  </i></p><p>  <i>“Why?” Castiel asks hoarsely.</i></p><p>  <i>Gabriel grins. “Because you can become one.”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> WHOO! I FINISHED A DCBB! Huge buckets of thanks go to [karmascars](http://archiveofourown.org/users/karmascars/pseuds/karmascars) for encouraging me to write (aka keeping my ass in line) and for editing the hell out of this thing. Seriously, they're the reason it's readable. *psst! go read their Bath Time series. Leave many kudos and comments. It's seriously adorable. ^_^*
> 
> This takes place in season five, but assumes that Dark Side of the Moon never happened, Castiel still has the amulet, and Gabriel survived. 
> 
> The awesome (also adorable) art is by [sternchencas!](http://sternchencas.tumblr.com/) Check out their [art post!](http://sternchencas.tumblr.com/post/132941365536/my-art-for-intotheruins-dcbb-2015-fic-the)

~

**Prologue**

~

He chases a moonlit blue shimmer through the dense, pine-scented darkness. With every stretch of his questing fingers, the light dances just beyond his reach. Unsure how long he's been been in pursuit, he stumbles over rocks and fallen trees, mindless of his new-found fragility. His mortal eyes are captivated. Like a child pursuing a will-o'-the-wisp, he is helpless against the light's pull. His desire to touch it is purely innocent, but the sensation alone drives him like nothing ever has, not family or duty or even those he loves. He reaches out again and trips over a root. He pitches forward violently, the tips of his fingers brushing the light for the barest instant. It's warm, and tingles against his skin before it draws away once more.

His ankle throbs, a painful reminder of how far he's fallen. A soft, incongruous laugh huffs up from his chest. The night, the pain, the chase; it's all as amusing as it is somehow terrifying.

As he continues to run, he becomes aware of a low, pounding rhythm. He thinks it's his footsteps until he trips and staggers to a halt, catching himself with his palm flat against the rough bark of a tree. The sound doesn't cease with his feet, so he holds still a moment to listen. It isn't a steady beat, but rather a rhythm, changing at seemingly random intervals.

Music. Is the light leading him to it?

He leaps back into the chase, lending his waning grace to his body to keep himself from exhaustion. His heart slams within his chest regardless, an unsteady staccato of fear. His fingers stretch toward the light, yearning for the return of that innocence.

A single step changes his settings so abruptly that he skids to a stop. The trees are left behind him. The light threads and steadily disappears into a massive fire, leaping skyward, reaching high to contradict the circle of large stones keeping it confined. He notes that the trees form a circle as well, just close enough to make the clearing feel cut off. Safe.

All around the fire, creatures are dancing. He is surprised to recognize fauns, dryads, even the forest deity often known as Pan, kicking up his bare feet with abandon. These are beings that rarely come to this realm anymore, driven to other worlds by the prevalence of dark magic here, shunned by Heaven simply because the angels don't understand them.

Castiel isn't afraid. He's curious.

On the outskirts of the firelight, five fauns sit cross-legged in the grass, beating out the steady music from small drums nestled into the crook of their legs. Pan's deeply tanned fingers dance over a wooden flute, eyes alight with a feral joy as he leaps around the fire. A dryad with skin like a pine tree, dark and deeply grooved, stands dangerously close to the flames and wails a wordless melody. As Castiel listens, an ache blooms in his chest. It throbs more insistently with every swell of the music.

A voice in his ear whispers, “Welcome to the party, little bro.”

Castiel shivers and tilts his head, but doesn't turn, letting the heat of breath wash over his skin. A hand slides up his back, palm pressed to his spine with just enough force to cause a delicious shudder of sensation. Castiel often finds himself fascinated by the breadth of human feeling, so different and yet somehow no less intense than what an angel is capable of experiencing.

“You led me here?” He didn't mean for it to be a question, but the scene before him is disorienting. Entrancing. He sways towards the fire, wondering what it feels like to dance without any reservations.

“Sure did.” The hand settles on the back of his neck, proprietary but gentle. “Been watching you flit around like someone's lost puppy, and you know what? It's getting old.” The hand on his neck squeezes, just enough to massage and make Castiel arch his neck at the surprising surge of pleasure. It contradicts the sharpness of the words, but somehow, contradiction doesn't seem so out of place here. “You chose free will, little bro! You don't need a higher power! And you know why?”

The figure steps around to face Castiel. Tawny eyes flare with grace, with magic, and with something else that Castiel can't identify.

“Why?” Castiel asks hoarsely.

Gabriel grins. “Because you can _become_ one.”

Slowly, Castiel blinks. He has so many questions, starting with: where has Gabriel _been_ since Lucifer's fall? And what has he become? Castiel isn't speaking to an angel, now. Pagan magic so strong it's overwhelming flares both his curiosity and his fear. His eyes widen, his legs quivering with the need to step back – or, perhaps, closer. He can no longer tell.

Instead, he reaches out to the archangel with his weakened grace, diving right in and finding the bright pulse of the Gabriel's own.

“Whoa, gettin' a little handsy there,” Gabriel says with a chuckle, but despite his words, he wraps his grace around Castiel in an oddly human gesture. It makes Castiel think of a hug.

“C'mon, kiddo. Come say hi to the family.”

The drumming increases in speed as Castiel steps closer to the fire. The heat makes his body sweat, trickles of it from his hair dripping into his eyes. He reaches up to swipe at it. Gabriel's hand is still on his neck, but it slides away when a faun comes up behind them. Dark-skinned hands hook into Castiel's lapels and pull back, relieving him of his coat.

“What--” Castiel turns, immediately reaching for it. He's never taken off any of Jimmy's clothing. It feels strange for the weight of it to be gone now, like he's vulnerable.

The faun laughs gently, and drops the coat to the ground. “It's okay!” he says, his voice a light, musical trill. “You're safe.” He has a broad face and no beard, and his smile is so wide that it seems impossible. The corners of Castiel's lips twitch. He lets the faun take his black jacket off as well, shivering when it is drawn away slowly.

Gabriel watches them with a gleam in his eyes that seems unrelated to the fire.

A dryad approaches him shyly, keeping her eyes downcast at first as she reaches up with roughened hands and removes Castiel's tie. When she does glance up, her eyes are doe-like, deep and solid brown. He gazes back without reservation. She giggles, and dances back with his tie wrapped around her hands like she means to keep it.

Gabriel moves to stand in front of him again, freeing the buttons on his white shirt and jostling the amulet resting between his pecs. He's lost his own shirt, Castiel realizes, and his feet are bare. The fauns are dressed in nothing but the thick fur adorning their lower bodies, and the dryads have only their long, moss-like hair. Clothes aren't right here, he realizes. They are blocking him from something.

“Gabriel...” he begins, but Gabriel shushes him and taps a finger over his lips.

“Loki,” he corrects gently. “Here, I'm Loki.”

“Loki,” Castiel says, trying it out on his tongue. He likes it, how it feels, like it's somehow wild. “I --”

He is cut off by his own soft gasp when Gabriel slides the shirt over his shoulders, palms warm and smooth as they brush across his skin. He opens his mouth to speak again, but Gabriel leans down and presses a kiss to his chest, just below his collar bone. It sends a lightening-shock of sensation zinging through his body, warmth and jittery pleasure from such a simple press of lips.

“Your shoes,” Gabriel says. He nudges one with his own bare foot. “Take 'em off.”

Without hesitation, Castiel toes them off. He brings his hands up to clutch at Gabriel's shoulders because he's being kissed again, this time on the curve of his left shoulder. It's nothing like that girl at the den of iniquity, who faked her attraction. Instead of that disconnect or any discomfort, Castiel is overwhelmed by a sense of being cared for. Every kiss Gabriel presses into his skin is nearly reverent, as though Castiel is the more powerful being here -- and he is drowning in it.

The faun from before kneels down and carefully circles a hand around Castiel's ankle, lifting so he can peel away the black sock. He repeats the action on the other side, and the moment Castiel's bare feet make contact with the earth he feels a pulse of power, as though he has somehow connected with every being in the clearing.

Gabriel kisses his cheek, humming a low, pleased note.

“What's your name?” Castiel finds himself asking the faun.

“Brenar,” the faun replies, standing. “You're very beautiful.”

Castiel's breath catches in his throat. No one has ever called him beautiful before. He likes it, no matter if the faun is referring to his physical or his angelic form.

Brenar steps away, bending with easy grace to lift Castiel's trench coat from the ground. He lays it out flat by the fire before running to where the other fauns are drumming. Their sound has become a low throb. The dryad has ceased her singing.

Castiel tries to kiss Gabriel's lips, but Gabriel leans away from him.

“Ah, ah.” Flash of a grin. “You need to save that for someone else.”

The waistline of Castiel's pants sags on his hips. Startled, he glances down. He didn't feel Gabriel's fingers undo his fly. He watches dumbly for a moment as Gabriel slides the pants down until they pool at his feet.

“What are you...?”

“Shh.” Gabriel bends down and lifts Castiel's feet, just like Brenar did, pulling the pants free and tossing them carelessly out of his way. He hooks his fingers into Castiel's boxers and grins up at him. “Feel good right now?”

Castiel opens his mouth to object, but what comes out is a shaky, “Yes.” Yes, Father help him, he feels amazing. The throb of the drums, the nervous stammer of his heartbeat, even the foreign sensation of exposure gives him a thrill. He feels worth looking at, and it turns all those stares at his nearly-bare form into a tangible caress.

“Then quit your worrying, kiddo,” Gabriel quips, and yanks the boxers down and off.

Castiel isn't entirely unfamiliar with the form that used to be Jimmy Novak's. On more than one occasion, Jimmy's – his – cock has made itself known, stiffening at the strangest of times and causing him a great deal of distraction. But knowing it's there and _seeing_ it are two completely different experiences. The flesh is already half-hard, thickening and rising, urged on by the attention. Gabriel whistles, a low note that Castiel thinks sounds impressed.

“You sure landed a nice looking vessel,” Gabriel murmurs. “Or should I say body?”

Castiel winces. He promised to protect Jimmy and his family, and he failed on every account. “It... doesn't always feel like mine,” he says quietly. “It shouldn't be.”

Gabriel shrugs. “Lot of things shouldn't _be;_ but they are, anyway. C'mon.”

He takes Castiel's hand again and leads him to where Brenar laid out his coat, just this side of too close to the fire. The heat makes Castiel dizzy. He winces, lifting a hand in front of his eyes to shield them. The beat of the drums increases, growing louder and louder as Gabriel slides an arm around Castiel's back and encourages him to lay down. The coat shields his skin from the earth, but he can still feel the crunch and prickle of sun-brittle grass pressing into his back through the thick material.

Gabriel crawls over him on all fours, hovering there. In the firelight, his tawny eyes are a fierce gold, nothing but the god Loki blazing through. Inexplicably, Castiel finds himself frightened again. He starts to draw his legs up, breathing heavily, trying to shield himself somehow – Gabriel rears back on his knees, and presses his palms into Castiel's thighs until they are trembling flat against the ground.

“Chill, little bro,” he murmurs. There is an audible note of power in his voice, and oddly enough, it calms Castiel. He shudders, but relaxes back against the ground. When Gabriel pushes gently at his inner thighs in encouragement, he parts them, exposing himself even further.

“You know, if you say no I'll stop,” Gabriel says suddenly. His voice is still pitched low. “But you haven't really put up a fight... so I'd guess you're not gonna.” His grin is equal parts smug and anticipatory.

“I don't want you to stop,” Castiel says, the first certain thing he's thought all night. “But... why?”

Gabriel crawls over him again. He leans down, brushes the amulet aside so it falls over one shoulder and presses a kiss to Castiel's forehead. He whispers against his skin, “The best thing I ever learned was how to be selfish. Been watching you for a while, little bro... and you have the potential to end up just like Dean Winchester.” An impatient huff of breath rustles his hair away from his forehead a little. “That poor chucklehead doesn't know how to ask for a damn thing for himself.” Gabriel pushes himself up on his arms. His eyes are glowing more now, golden light flooding in until Castiel can no longer see anything else.

“I'm going to give you a gift, Cas. You gonna take it?”

“Yes,” Castiel breathes, and Gabriel lowers himself so that their bodies are aligned.

Castiel has no idea when Gabriel's pants disappeared, but he barely spares it a thought. Gabriel's cock is longer than his but slimmer; hot, and downright amazing as it slides along the crease of his hip. His own cock rubs against Gabriel's soft stomach, leaking a sticky fluid that his vast storage of information helpfully identifies as precome. A thin sheen of sweat rises on their skin, proximity to the fire and one another, easing the slide.

It's too much, too fast, and for a moment Castiel just lays there with his head tipped back, mouth open around nothing but too little air.

The drum beat quickens. Castiel's heart slams against his ribcage. Tongues of heat lick at them, searing and too close. Out of the corner of his eye, Castiel can see the hooves of the fauns and the root-like feet of the dryads, all of them close. All of them watching. Gabriel's body rolls against him and Castiel cries out, eyes wide with disbelief at how good it feels to have his cock rubbing against Gabriel's overheated skin. His hips jerk up, rutting against Gabriel, again and again in quick, needy circles.

A hand touches his shoulder. Castiel gasps and lets his head fall to the side to find Brenar kneeling beside them. He is grinning, and though he doesn't lean in he begins to stroke Castiel's shoulder. More touches; the shy dryad is raking careful fingers through his hair, another faun strokes Gabriel's back. They are all watching, they can all see Castiel's desire, and it makes him wild. He grabs for a handful of Gabriel's hair, yanking his head up so that Castiel can lean in and savagely bite at the flesh of his throat. Gabriel groans with abandon.

A collective murmur of approval ripples through their audience.

Logically, Castiel knows when his orgasm is approaching. His body begins to tighten, his heart racing, and his thrusts are becoming uneven. What he isn't prepared for is the intensity of it, the slow build of sensation climbing higher and higher until he begins to fear the fall.

“We have you, Castiel,” Loki says, no trace of the archangel Gabriel in that voice. He wraps an arm around Castiel's shoulders and pulls him in, tucking the angel's face into the sweat-slick crook of his neck. “You're safe.”

Castiel lets out a choking sob and comes, screaming his release into Loki's skin. It washes through his entire body, great wracking waves of it that just keep coming. He's flying, unable to land, and he isn't sure he ever wants to. He barely feels Loki's own release as it splatters hotly onto his chest and stomach, nearly unaware of it until Brenar leans in and licks the semen delicately from his skin.

“Loki...” Castiel starts, voice rough from the force of his screams. He feels like he's still coming.

Something surges through his grace, bright and golden. The fauns let out a series of wild cries, leaping up and dancing around him, their hoof-beats matching the frantic tattoo of the drums. The dryads begin to sing as one, low and rough like the groaning of old wood. It thrums through the air, through Castiel's veins. He thrashes beneath Gabriel's weight, panicked by the unknown essence pulsing inside him.

“Chill, little bro,” Gabriel mutters. He sounds exhausted.

He rolls off of Castiel, placing a gentle hand over his eyes. Castiel falls asleep for the first time with the echos of the dryad's song ringing in his ears.

~


	2. Chapter 2

Suffocating heat washes over Dean. He rolls onto his side with a groan, halfway to waking and unwilling to open his eyes. The fire isn't threatening, just too hot. He's starting to sweat beneath his clothes. In the last, hazy snatches of his dream, he can vaguely see someone stretched out near the flames, pale and naked, clearly male – not that his body seems to give a fuck. Dean tucks himself into the back of the couch, rolling his hips forward lazily. Whoever the man is, he's about to come. Dean kinda really wants him to.

Dean grinds his crotch into the cushions, and the first jolt of pleasure snaps him awake.

With a groan, he rolls onto his back, scrubbing a hand over his eyes. The dream fades fast and leaves him with nothing but a sense of dissatisfaction. Dean slides a hand down his stomach, over the insistent bulge of his cock, rubbing his thumb along the length. He hisses at the sensation that dances up his spine.

Though he can smell something delicious cooking, a bleary glance around tells him he's alone in the living room. He gives his cock another rub with the flat of his palm, biting his lip to keep back a moan. There might be time for a quickie...

He's given himself a single, firm stroke through his jeans when suddenly Gabriel appears beside him, holding a limp Castiel in his arms.

“What the..!” Dean yanks his hand away from his crotch and scrambles into a sitting position. Castiel's eyes are closed. Worry begins its familiar gnawing at Dean's insides. He's only seen the angel unconscious once, and that was from the stress of friggin' _time travel_. If the damn fool went and hurt himself without even trying to call them for back-up –

“Whoa, Deano. Relax.” Gabriel winks at him, and shifts his burden. Castiel's limp arms flop and something in Dean clenches up painfully at the sight. When they'd first met, Cas was all power and righteous fury. Every new little human trait on display just serves to remind Dean that _he's_ the reason Castiel is no longer at full capacity.

The reason he's falling.

“What happened?” Dean asks, squashing down the guilt.

“Oh, let's just say our boy here had an interesting night,” Gabriel tells him cheerfully. “Budge up.”

Dean hauls himself to his feet. Gabriel shuffles forward and lays Castiel down with care, arranging him so he's comfortable, even going so far as to put a pillow under his head. Dean watches the little scene warily. He's still getting used to the idea that Gabriel is their ally.

Which is why he has to ask: “So, you didn't do anything to him?” He's not sure he'll believe it if Gabriel tells him no, but he wants to. The non-lethal version of the archangel is actually kind of fun.

“Nothing he didn't like,” Gabriel drawls. “And when I say like? I mean _really_ like. Also yes, Captain Obvious, he's fine, just going through some changes. He won't wake up for another day or so, though, and I've got things to do.” He fixes Dean with a gimlet stare. “So you be a good boy and keep an eye out.”

The archangel snaps his fingers and a pile of assorted chocolate bars appears on the coffee table.

“Don't touch,” he says sternly.

When Dean reaches for them anyway, Gabriel rolls his eyes and produces a Mounds bar. “Here. You can have this. Say hi to Sammich for me.”

He hands the bar to Dean, and disappears.

Dean eyes the small mountain of chocolate for a moment before he shrugs and tears open his Mounds. He wolfs it down in three bites. It's the damn Apocalypse, he's not exactly worried about cavities.

He still doesn't quite trust Gabriel, so he leans over Cas to check for injuries. He pushes the angel's rumpled coat open, cursing himself silently when his cheeks burn even though Castiel isn't awake to notice the intrusion. The flush intensifies as Dean runs his hands over Castiel's chest and legs, checking for blood or anything out of place. He breathes a sigh of relief when he finds nothing but warmth.

Adjusting the pillow a little beneath the dark head, he chuckles fondly when Castiel makes a tiny, happy sound in his sleep and nuzzles into it.

“You better be okay,” Dean murmurs. Then he crumples his Mounds wrapper, drops it on the table, and goes to find some coffee.

The delicious smell thickens into something even better once he's actually in the kitchen: bacon, fresh coffee, the sweet tang of real maple syrup. Dean breathes it in deeply, only to stop short in surprise when he sees it's _Sam_ slaving over Bobby's stove making wonderful, greasy, fatty breakfast things.

His first reaction is to blurt, “Hey, Iron Chef. Say 'Christo' for me.”

Sam flips him off without looking away from the bacon he's currently turning. “I felt like what you'd call a 'real' breakfast. It's the end of the world. Sue me.”

Hey, that works for Dean. He grabs a mug off the counter and fills it with Colombian, sniffing appreciatively at the bacon. “Cas is here.”

“Yeah?” Sam sets his fork down, and reaches for his own half-empty mug. “Does he want breakfast?”

“He's out cold.” The coffee is strong and almost too hot. Basically, perfect. “Gabriel brought him, said -- and I quote -- he's 'going through some changes'. Should wake up in a day or two.” Dean takes another sip, hoping it hides the worry Sam can always read in his eyes.

Sam gives him a look over the rim of his mug, some mixture of annoyance and concern, but doesn't say anything. Dean is grateful. He knows his reactions have changed since he got back from Hell, and he might even know why, but he's not sure Sam would understand if he tried to explain. Though the fact that Sam has backed off so much over the past few weeks actually scares him a little. He's pretty sure if they do manage to make it through the Apocalypse, his brother will never give him a moment's peace again.

He's actually kinda okay with that.

“Gabriel didn't hurt him, did he?” Sam asks abruptly. He picks up the fork and stabs a piece of bacon with more force than is strictly necessary.

“Doesn't look like it, but the fact that he's sleeping at all probably isn't good.” Dean takes the three steps required to reach Bobby's office, and then peers around the next doorway. Cas has turned so his back is to them, shifting slightly with each deep, even breath. Dean stands there a moment, hands wrapped too tight around his mug. He absently lifts it to his lips and watches as Cas pulls his coat more snugly around himself, muttering something in his sleep.

 _'Nothing he didn't really like.'_ Gabriel's voice echoes through Dean's mind, and Dean scowls into his mug. He turns his back on the living room.

“You want a pancake?” Sam asks. He has one sizzling in the pan that held the bacon just a moment ago, tinted purple by blueberries because of course he just _had_ to add something healthy.

“I want two,” Dean says.

Sam chuckles and nods.

“You're really going all out.”

Sam shrugs. “I just thought I'd do it right, you know?” He ducks his head as he flips the pancake, hair falling into his eyes. Dean sets his mug down hard enough for the old table to wobble.

“Okay, what's up?” Dean demands.

Sam pauses. He draws in a deep breath and pokes at the pancake with his spatula, chasing it around the pan. “That goes both ways.”

“What?”

Sam slides the pancake onto a plate and pours in a new one. “I'll tell you what's on my mind, if you tell me what's on yours.”

Dean rolls his eyes. He picks up his mug, but sets it down again just as fast.

He sighs.

Finally, he mutters, “I'm worried about Cas. He shouldn't be sleeping, or passing out, or whatever. That good enough for you?”

A plate is set down in front of him, loaded with fluffy eggs and crispy bacon and only slightly burnt pancakes. The syrup bottle and a fork appear beside it. When Dean looks up, Sam is smiling. “Yeah, for now. Look, I...” Sam draws in a sharp breath. His eyes dart away, glancing off the table and down towards the floor. “I have an idea about Lucifer. But I need to think on it some more before I try to explain it.”

Dean picks up his fork and points it straight between Sam's eyes. “But you _are_ gonna tell me?”

Sam's eyes cross trying to look at the fork. He snorts and pushes Dean's hand away. “Yeah, I promise. Go mother-hen Cas already.”

“Shut up,” Dean mutters, but he dumps a liberal amount of syrup over his food before carrying his plate into the living room.

Castiel is on his back when Dean puts his plate down on the coffee table. The coat has fallen halfway off his shoulders, pinning his arms to his sides. A tiny frown creases the skin between the angel's eyebrows. He makes a low, muttering sound of distress and shifts against the coat. Dean watches for a second, amused by the struggle, before he takes pity on Castiel and carefully pulls each arm free of its sleeve. The angel relaxes instantly, frown smoothing out as he noses into his pillow and settles down.

There is another couch and a chair nearby, but Dean opts to sit on the floor instead. He leans back against the coffee table and sets his plate in his lap. He eats with as much gusto as he always has, but it's one of the bad days; the taste is bland on his tongue. There's a hollow pit just sitting there in his chest, aching because this should taste good. Food used to make him happy. Now, so often, it just feels like a process.

He keeps his eyes on Castiel as he eats. He thinks the angel is dreaming, which does make him quirk a little smile for a moment. It must be weird for Castiel to dream. Or maybe it's not, maybe it's a lot like walking into someone else's dreams. He's been in Dean's enough times.

What would Cas dream about? Heaven, or maybe his new human experiences? Would he visit Chastity again, keep his mouth shut this time and get a little further? Nah, that sounded too much like something Dean would dream. Cas is probably dreaming about finding God.

The angel smiles, soft, just the twitch of lips before the expression smooths away. He huffs out an oddly petulant breath through his nose and shifts, nuzzling deeper into his pillow.

Maybe he's fishing. Last time Dean dreamed, he and Cas were on a dock. The water was still and unusually clear -- probably Dean's subconscious trying not to give his nightmares a place to hide. They were set up in camping chairs, but they had only one fishing pole, and Dean kept leaning into Castiel's space to show him how to use it. Cas knocked over Dean's beer with his foot. When he caught his first fish he had the most dumbstruck look on his face, like he couldn't believe he'd succeeded in something so human. Then he'd healed the fish and put it back in the water.

Dean reaches out and adjusts the trench coat so it's pulled over Castiel's shoulder, more like a blanket.

When the plate is empty, Dean takes it back to the kitchen and sets it in the sink. Sam has the laptop open on the table. He's navigating it with his right hand while he eats awkwardly with his left, and doesn't seem to notice as Dean refills his mug and shakes his head at his geeky little brother. When it becomes clear that Sam is deep in the zone, probably looking for a new case, Dean heads back out to the living room. He finds Bobby in front of the couch, leaning over one of the arms of his wheelchair to squint at Castiel's sleeping face.

“He supposed to be doin' that?” Bobby asks gruffly without looking up at Dean. He winces at the sound of his own voice, and Dean wonders how many empty bottles of Jack he'd find if he went into the downstairs bedroom.

Not that he blames the man. At all.

“Don't think so,” he answers. He sinks back down on the floor and folds both hands around his mug, letting the renewed heat of it sink into his palms. Castiel makes an odd, snuffling sound and rolls closer to the edge of the couch, towards Dean. “Gabriel dropped him off a couple hours ago, said he'll wake up in a day or so. He didn't tell me what happened.”

“'Course not.” Bobby heaves a sigh and turns his chair around, heading for the kitchen. He listens as Bobby greets Sam with a rough 'good morning' that Sam returns more cheerfully, if completely distracted. The tap comes on, followed by the steady clink and rattle of dishes being set in the drainer. Dean thinks about getting up to help – Sam did cook everything, after all.

But Castiel sighs in his sleep. He tucks his face into the pillow, shifting so that one arm falls over his body to hang from the edge of the couch. Dean stares hard at the soft curl of the angel's fingers and clenches his own more tightly around the mug.

He doesn't move from that spot until his coffee is gone and his bladder is practically screaming at him.

Setting his cup down on the table, Dean finds his duffel at the end of the couch and digs around until he finds a clean pair of boxers and a new t-shirt. The jeans he's got on are probably fine for another day or two. He checks on Cas one more time, making sure he's still comfortable, before trudging up the stairs to the bathroom. He doesn't bother showering. After quieting his bladder, he splashes some cold water on his face, rubbing his fingers over his rough jaw. He could use a shave but it doesn't seem worth it. Who's he trying to look good for, anyway? Certainly not the dead-eyed dude staring back at him from the mirror.

When Dean gets back downstairs, Sam is sitting in the chair beside the couch. He has Bobby's biggest coffee cup in his hands and he's watching Castiel with calm, steady eyes. He glances up when Dean sinks down on the other couch, offering a quick flash of a smile that means everything is okay for the moment.

“Thanks,” Dean says tiredly. He's only been up for a few hours and already he wants to sleep. Or maybe just pass the fuck out.

“Yup.” Sam nods, sipping his coffee. He watches Dean watch Cas, and in the periphery Dean sees a small frown pull at the edges of Sam's mouth.

He waits.

“Dean?”

There it is. “Hm?” he grunts.

Sam draws in a deep breath and sets his coffee down on the table. “You know it's not your fault, right?”

“Sam,” Dean warns.

“No, just, just listen. Ever since you... you know, got back. You act weird when one of us gets hurt. Like you think it's your fault, and you have to be extra vigilant to make up for it.”

“ _Sam.”_ Dean's tone is low but sharp, and firm enough to make Sam pause in surprise. Dean casts a side-glance towards his brother.

Sam sighs. “Okay, fine. But it's not your fault.”

With a dismissive snort, Dean returns his gaze to Castiel's face.

~

Castiel is aware, but he isn't awake. It's a fascinating sensation, just similar enough to the feeling of flight that he aches. He can feel something soft beneath his cheek, is vaguely aware of his arm hanging free and his trench coat draped over him like a blanket. None of it, however, is as important as the warmth suffusing his entire being. It wraps around body and grace alike. He can _see_ it within himself, a deep, golden light, and beneath it is the cooler presence of his grace. The soul of him hovers between the two energies, confused. Is he angel, or is he...?

“ _You can become a god,”_ a laughing voice whispers.

Castiel's eyes snap open.

Reality coalesces. The softness beneath his cheek is a pillow, and his body is sunk deep into the ancient, sagging cushions of one of Bobby's couches. Castiel rolls onto his back and then heaves himself into a sitting position, rubbing a palm roughly over his eyes in an attempt to scrub away the lingering traces of sleep. How do humans ever become accustomed to such a sensation?

A low, nasal grating draws Castiel's attention. He squints into the dark, surprised to note that his eyes aren't adjusting as easily as they usually do. He can just make out a figure on the other couch. It sounds like Dean. Why can't he see the hunter properly? Castiel reaches in to lend some grace to his vision, only to brush up against that golden warmth instead.

It flares, not just light but _power --_

All the lights in Bobby's house come on at once, and the couch beneath a snoring Dean Winchester vanishes into thin air.

Dean lets out something very much like a squawk as he hits the floor. He scrambles to all fours, eyes barely open and hand reaching for the gun Castiel suspects disappeared with the couch. Several seconds of groping the air force Dean to pry his eyes fully open. He freezes, gaze narrowing as he looks first at the floor, then his hand, and finally to Castiel.

“What did you do?” Dean heaves himself up onto his knees as if to stand, and then promptly plants his butt on the floor, like standing is way too much effort to deal with right now. “You okay?”

Slowly, Castiel pushes himself into a sitting position. He feels... good. More at home in his physical form than he's ever been. “I... yes. I'm fine,” he says. “I don't know what I did.”

He frowns. “Gabriel has done something to me.”

“I knew it!” Dean slaps the floor with an open palm. “What did he do? You sure you're okay?”

“Yes, I'm... what is _that?”_

“Huh?” It takes Dean a moment to see where Castiel's eyes have strayed. “Oh, Gabriel left it for you. Peace offering, I guess?”

There are at least six different types of tiny chocolate bars piled high in the middle of the table. Castiel reaches out and delicately lifts one with glaringly blue wrapping between two fingers. The word “Crunch” is printed across its front in bright red letters. Curiously, Castiel takes the top corner and carefully tears a strip of plastic away. The chocolate is a light color, and appears to be speckled. A sniff tells Castiel that there is something inside the chocolate that barely resembles rice. Why would Gabriel think he would want these?

Hesitantly, he bites off the corner of the bar.

Sweetness explodes across his taste buds, and the not-quite-rice adds a crunchy texture that Castiel finds bizarrely pleasant. It's absolutely nothing like the cheeseburgers he devoured during the hunt for Famine, but it gives him the same deep sense of satisfaction. Castiel rips off the rest of the plastic and stuffs the bar into his mouth, already reaching for the next one.

“Uh, Cas, buddy? You good?”

“This is very pleasant,” Castiel mumbles around the chocolate coating his tongue. He rips off another wrapper and pops the new bar into his mouth without looking to see what type it is. This one is darker, richer, with a bitter tang he decides right then and there that he absolutely adores. Perhaps he should look at the wrappers more closely. “Dean, you should try this.” He holds out a Crunch bar, eager to share, but his smile dies on his lips when he sees Dean's eyes narrowed in concern.

“Cas, have you had candy before?” the hunter asks slowly.

Castiel shakes his head. “No. I've never tried human sustenance of any kind. Except for cheeseburgers.”

“Okay... So why'd you just dive into it like that?”

Castiel frowns. He looks down at the newest bar in his hand, something called Dove. He swallows, swirling his tongue across the back of his teeth to chase down the last traces of sweetness. “I don't know. I wanted it.”

Then he frowns. “I didn't just 'dive into it', Dean. I tested it first.”

Dean scrubs a hand across his eyes and through his hair. “Yeah, I guess. But you didn't even eat the burgers with that much, uh...” He waves a hand at Castiel and the half-demolished pile of chocolate. “That.”

Castiel stares at him, uncomprehending. Dean sighs and heaves himself to his feet. After a moment's consideration, he picks out a little packet of M&Ms from the pile. He dumps the entire thing into his mouth in one go and then just stands there, chewing absently, staring at the space once occupied by the other couch.

“Think you can bring it back?”

Castiel shrugs. “I didn't send it anywhere, I... appear to have vaporized it. That's not actually something I could do before. I'll try to recreate it.”

Dean nods once. Castiel squints at the empty space, focusing on a desire to have it remade. At the last second he decides to make it new, since everything in Bobby's house seems to be falling apart. He reaches inside, tentatively stroking against the warmth of his new power.

Dean sits down beside him. Their shoulders brush as Dean leans down to retrieve another chocolate bar, and Castiel's eyes dart down to the hunter's bent head.

The couch literally pops into existence. Dean jumps at the sudden noise and then laughs at himself, only to cut off with a startled grunt when he straightens.

“Uh. Cas?”

The couch is brand new, overstuffed, and covered in a layer of what looks suspiciously like Dean's hair.

“Yes,” Castiel sighs. “My apologies. I'll fix it.”

The angel goes to reach inside again, but Dean slaps a palm against his chest like he can somehow sense what Castiel is about to do. “Nah, man.” He's grinning, wide and open. “Make it longer. Make it like Sam's hair!”

“Why?”

“Just do it!” Dean twists to face him, beaming. “Come on, Cas, it'll be hilarious!”

Castiel hesitates with a little scowl. Dean so often makes demands, and the angel's tenuous new free will often feels as though it's fracturing beneath the weight... but the hunter's eyes are eager, the grin on his face the largest Castiel has seen in a long time. A smile flirts with the corners of the angel's lips and he shakes his head, amusement winning out as he flicks his fingers towards the couch. The hair shifts, growing and changing shade until it is precisely the same as Sam's.

Dean howls with laughter. He falls back against the arm of the couch, his hand slipping off Castiel's chest. The angel gasps as the heat of it drags across his collarbone, tugging at the fabric of his shirt before it falls away completely. He scowls again at the flush of heat that surges through him, but Dean doesn't seem to notice, too caught up in laughing.

“We should try to contact Gabriel,” Castiel suggests. “We need to know what he did to me.” He hopes that it will perhaps distract the hunter -- but Dean is still laughing, tears pooling in the corners of his eyes. Castiel rolls his eyes even as he fights to keep from laughing himself. “Dean.”

“Y-yeah, I... fuck, Sam's face is gonna be _great_...” Dean gasps in air, finally hauling himself upright even as he chokes on the snickers he's trying so hard to push back down. “Okay, yeah, Gabriel. What do you remember?”

Heat. So much heat, he was drowning in it. The groaning wail of the dryads' song, the low throb of the drums, and most of all: Gabriel. The sweat-slick heat of him, the sweet drag of his skin against Castiel's cock, Loki's power blazing awesome and tantalizing from those tawny eyes. Castiel shudders, biting back a moan as a blush pools hot and sudden in his cheeks. He shivers and turns his face away from Dean, taking a breath to compose himself.

“Gabriel seduced me,” he says finally.

Dean chokes on the Crunch bar he just popped in his mouth. When it looks as though he won't be stopping anytime soon, Castiel reaches out and tentatively pats him on the back.

“You mean like... actual seducing?” Dean waves a hand in the general direction of Castiel's crotch, only to jerk his arm back when Castiel nods once.

“I believe it was a ritual of some kind,” Castiel says before Dean can continue. He closes his eyes, fighting back another blush. The memory is... _delicious,_ and yet Castiel is surprised to note that he doesn't wish for it to happen again. “Gabriel was in his pagan form, and when we came together a new power was given to me. It feels...” Castiel pauses. He brushes cautiously against the light. “It's golden, and warm. It doesn't feel wrong.”

When he opens his eyes, he finds Dean's green gaze locked curiously on his face. Dean raises one eyebrow when Castiel stares calmly back; he's never had the 'intimacy' issues Dean associates with eye contact. He's never shied from it.

“What's your grace look like?” Dean blurts, quick and curious. He glances away and then back again, holding the angel's eyes determinedly.

Castiel frowns. He tries several human terms in his mind, shaking his head when none of them quite fit. “The closest colors are blue and white,” he says slowly. “It also feels cooler than the gold light.”

“Huh.” Dean looks away again, this time focusing on the coffee table with an intensity Castiel is fairly certain it doesn't deserve. “Should we summon Gabriel, or can you guys talk? Or,” Dean's jaw clenches suddenly. “Maybe we should just figure this out ourselves. If the guy's going around molesting people...”

The angel tilts his head. “I was not molested, Dean,” he says with a roll of his eyes. He likes rolling his eyes. It communicates so much irritation in such a small motion. “I can try speaking to him.” He closes his eyes. He sends out a prayer to his brother, asking for his assistance, or at least an explanation. When he receives nothing in return, he tries reaching for the angel's grace and is surprised to encounter a vast space of nothing. Even a block, or ward of some kind, should have been detectable.

After spending a good ten minutes convincing a reluctant Dean (“You're sure you consented? You weren't drugged or something? You're _sure?_ ”), they perform a summoning ritual. When that and a second attempt produces no results, they agree that the archangel is deliberately avoiding them. They return to the couch, shoulder to shoulder, and for a few minutes neither says a word. The quiet is pleasant, but it means Castiel can hear his new power clamoring for attention.

It's interesting, how alive this golden energy seems to be. Castiel cautiously brushes it again, testing it with both soul and grace. His grace is a part of him, alive in its own way but completely entwined with him, and residing outside the spectrum of physical living. This new sensation feels not separate, but... different. Like it _lives_ , has a mind of its own, and seems to consciously wantto interact with Castiel.

“Think you can do other stuff?” Dean asks suddenly. He's eying the couch with a curiosity that sets Castiel on edge.

“I don't know,” he says. He sighs when Dean turns those green eyes on him. “Would you like me to try?”

Dean grins. He stands and grabs a handful of Castiel's coat, hauling him upright. Briefly, the angel wonders what Dean would do if he knew Castiel _allowed_ himself to be manhandled like this. The thought of the shock on the hunter's face is tempting -- but he's curious about what Dean has in mind.

Dean lets him go in the center of the room. He taps a finger against his jaw, eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he looks around the room. Then he points at the coffee table. “Make that disappear.”

Castiel flicks his fingers at the table and it vanishes, along with the remainder of the candy and a few of Bobby's ancient magazines. Dean lets out a delighted laugh. He glances around the room, and then grabs another magazine from a dusty pile on the floor. He throws it high in the air. This time, the angel doesn't even ask. He vanishes it with a tilt of his head, adding a hissing noise that he thinks the hunter will find amusing.

Dean barks out a laugh and fires six more magazines into the air in quick succession. Castiel adds a different sound to each one; a pop, a snap, the slurping noise he's heard Dean make when he sucks the last bit of soda from a straw. By the time they stop Dean is beaming, a radiant glow of enjoyment that makes Castiel want to smile, or touch him. He lets himself reach out and brush the backs of his fingers against Dean's shoulder while Dean is chuckling and not paying attention, but doesn't know what to do with the delicious shiver that rushes down his spine. Being with Dean is much the same as it was to be with Gabriel in the clearing; confusion and curiosity and so many different levels of pleasure, and he doesn't know if he wants to fly away or crawl deeper into the mess of emotion.

From there, Dean decides it would be amusing if Castiel only made _pieces_ of a thing disappear. Half of the hairless couch, a perfect circle from the wall above the doorway leading to the kitchen, a snake-like line from Bobby's desk. It isn't until Dean has Castiel write in flowing cursive “Sam is a giant dill weed” on the ceiling in massive bold letters that the requests finally stop -- if only because Dean is laughing too hard to speak.

It's one of his good days. Castiel remembers thinking, when he first plucked Dean from the pit, that it was normal for Dean to shun the things that made him happy. The more he learned of Dean's past and shared in Dean's fluctuating emotional states, the more he realized that wasn't true. Hell gave the man a condition, something Castiel doesn't have a name for.

And he can't talk about it, which frustrates him. Dean shies from any communication that isn't physical, but Castiel is still learning the intricacies of that particular language. The mere consideration of attempting such a conversation with Dean fills him with equal measures of dread and... something akin to excitement.

“Sam does not in any way resemble dill,” he says to distract himself, squinting up at the burnt-black words. It's simpler to focus on the moment. Safer. Humor is something he can give to Dean, even if half the time he's not really sure how he's being funny. He glances at the hunter, who has both hands braced on the wall and his eyes squeezed shut as he laughs. Shaking his head, Castiel repairs most of the damage to Bobby's furniture, but leaves the words on the ceiling and the Sam-like hair on the couch.

“Hey,” Dean gasps, trying to catch his breath. “Can you make food?”

Castiel shrugs. “What sort of food?”

“Pie?” Dean turns to him, eyes as wide and hopeful as a child's. “Can you make pie?”

He doesn't see why not. A few steps brings Castiel into view of the kitchen. He starts to ask what sort of pie Dean would like, but then merely flicks his fingers and creates every pie that immediately comes to mind. They cover the entire expanse of the table, along with several counters and the top of the fridge. Some of them are cold and covered in fluffy whipped cream, but the rest have a lazy curl of steam wafting from between lattice-style crusts, and Castiel finds himself intrigued by all the different sweet scents. He begins to salivate as he breathes it in.

Dean _moans_ , his eyes glazing over as he stares. Castiel feels a surge of dumbstruck awe from the hunter. “Cas, buddy. You're awesome.”

Castiel smiles, and at the same time he feels a heady warmth manifest between his legs. He glares down at his crotch when he feels his cock twitch; why is this particular piece of his body so beyond his control?

“Apple, blueberry, strawberry...” Dean shuffles around the table, identifying flavors as he goes. Castiel stands back and watches with simmering amusement. “Key-lime, oh man. I don't know which one to eat first.”

The angel casts a cursory glance over the table and points to the first one that appears appealing to him. “That one.”

Dean follows Castiel's point. “Peach? Sounds good to me.”

Dean lifts the pie tin from the center of the table and sets it down at the edge, carefully shuffling several others out of the way. He pulls two forks from a drawer beside the sink and tosses one to Castiel. “Come on,” he says. “I've been meaning to introduce you to the wonder of pie.”

If Castiel is perfectly honest with himself, he has been rather curious about pie. About many of the things Dean and Sam find enjoyable. Sometimes, he wonders if he is attempting to find a sense of self with this new-found free will of his, and being so lost as to where to begin he has focused on the Winchesters instead of himself.

He soon disregards that line of thought. Pie, it turns out, is very good. Dean seems to find his enthusiasm vastly amusing, and takes great pleasure in watching every one of Castiel's first bites. A little moue of disappointment appears when Castiel discovers he despises the key-lime, but it quickly smooths into a massive grin after the angel decides blueberry and cherry are two of the most amazing flavors ever to grace human existence.

Or at least they are until Castiel takes his first bite of chocolate cream pie.

“Cas?” Dean raises one eyebrow, fork full of apple and cinnamon halfway to his lips. “You okay?”

Castiel closes his eyes. It's a similar flavor to the chocolate bars, rich and thick but creamier, smoother somehow, and the whipped cream adds a delightful kick of extra sweetness. Reluctantly, Castiel swallows. He reaches out and wraps an arm around the entire pie dish, hugging it to his chest and standing so that he can back several paces away from the table.

“You cannot have this,” Castiel says firmly, and shoves another heaping forkful into his mouth.

“ _What?_ ” Dean lurches back in his chair, fork clattering. His eyes are wide, jaw slack. Castiel's knowledge of human facial expression is still limited, but he's fairly certain Dean is scandalized.

Castiel smirks. Just a little quirk at the corners of his lips, one of the first human expressions he learned. Dean's jaw clenches, his eyes narrowing as he sets down his tin and rises from his seat. Very deliberately, Castiel takes a single step backward.

Dean lifts his fork towards the tin. His eyes are shining, but Castiel can't tell if it's anger or amusement.

“Surrender the pie,” Dean demands.

“No.” Castiel scoops out a massive bite. Dean's eyes lock onto it and he licks his lips, a quick little swipe with the tip of his tongue. “Your favorites are the apple and the strawberry rhubarb,” the angel continues. “I haven't touched either. You have plenty.”

Dean squints at him. “You reading my mind again, Cas?”

Castiel shakes his head. He opens his mouth to speak again but hesitates. Will Dean react badly if he knows Castiel can sense his emotions?

“I can sense certain human reactions,” he says finally, settling on a general truth he's sure Dean will find more comfortable. “You were happiest when eating those particular flavors.”

“Doesn't matter.” Dean stabs his fork toward Cas, and the angel nearly flinches when he feels a sense of alarm from the hunter, along with something his body translates into a delicious kind of warmth. “It's the principle of the thing. You can't just take the whole pie until I get a bite of it.”

Castiel frowns. He tilts his head, taking in Dean's playfully aggressive stance, the grin beginning to tease at his lips. There is nothing on his face to indicate the alarm Castiel felt from him, and it is at once fascinating and infuriating.

Carefully, Castiel tightens his grip around the pie tin.

“You'll have to take it from me,” he says coolly. He takes another step back and sets a new bite between his lips, sliding the fork out slowly in what he hopes is a taunting gesture.

A punch of heat slams into Castiel from Dean even as the hunter grins, quick and fierce. Castiel tips his head again, considering. The warmth seems to indicate that his actions are _pleasing_ Dean.

“No flying,” Dean says suddenly, pointing a stern finger right between Castiel's eyes.

And then he lunges, going from relaxed to a fighting stance so quickly that Castiel actually stumbles back in surprise. His back strikes the door frame, the sharp edge digging through his clothing against the right side of his spine. He grunts, clutching the pie tin even closer, rolling his shoulders and pushing himself upright. Dean laughs, and takes a swipe at the tin. His hand moves heavily, almost clumsy. It makes Castiel wonder if Dean's amusement has caused him to lose the control he normally holds over his own body.

The concept is... intriguing.

Castiel shoves another forkful of creamy mousse into his mouth, scrambling backward to avoid Dean's next swipe. Moving without deliberate purpose gives Castiel a thrill he hasn't experienced before. There's no logic to his steps, no plan to traverse from point A to point B. His only goal is to avoid Dean's grasping hands, and every time they come close he finds himself breathing faster, his heart rate picking up in response to spikes of fear that are somehow equally playful. He gasps when Dean's fingertips come into contact with the edge of the tin, fumbling across his exposed wrist, and tries to hug the pie closer. He's so focused on Dean and Dean's hands and Dean's smile that he fails to feel out his next step.

Castiel has never physically fallen before, except in a fight. The complete lack of support at his back as he rushes towards the ground is exhilarating and terrifying all at once. He hears Dean shout something about not dropping the pie. A surge of indignation flurries through him at the lack of concern Dean is showing for him, and then there are hands on his back, broad and strong, pressing against his shoulder blades and pushing him upright.

Dean freezes. Slowly, Castiel turns to find Sam standing behind him. His hair is a mess, sticking up in so many directions that Castiel wants to count them until he meets Sam's eyes. They are half-closed, bloodshot and dark with what the angel is fairly certain is irritation. Possibly outright anger.

“What,” Sam grumbles. “The hell. Are you _doing?_ ”

It occurs to Castiel that it is still very early in the morning, and that their fight... their _play?_... likely woke Sam.

“Sorry, Sammy,” Dean says, shrugging. His voice is light but his eyes are wary, suggesting the situation is more dire than Castiel initially guessed. He edges closer to Dean just to be safe, even if it is impossible for Sam to actually hurt him. “Cas won't let me try the chocolate cream.”

Sam blinks once, very slowly. His gaze drops to the pie tin in Castiel's arms. “It's five thirty in the morning.”

“Never too early for pie!” Dean says cheerfully, only to back away suddenly with his hands raised when Sam takes what appears to be a threatening step forward. “Whoa, whoa. Okay, Princess. Sorry we interrupted your beauty sleep -- but hey, c'mere. I got something that'll make you feel better.”

Dean side-steps behind Cas and gestures until Sam, grumbling, follows him into the living room.

There is a very long pause. Castiel uses it to eat more pie.

“Okay,” he hears Sam say. “So... I'm still dreaming?”

Dean laughs, loud enough that Castiel has to go see what's happening. Sam is standing in front of the couch, staring down at it looking dumbstruck. Dean is braced with his hands on his knees, laughing so hard his face is turning red.

“You are awake,” Castiel informs him. When Sam just continues to blink at the hairy couch, Castiel holds out the tin. “Pie?”

“HEY!” Dean is upright and in his face in half the time it takes Castiel to blink. “Why does he get some and I don't?”

Castiel shrugs with his free arm. “I offered. You demanded.”

Sam snorts, though he doesn't remove his eyes from the couch. Looking stunned, Dean blinks. Then he widens his eyes to an absurd diameter and blinks again, more deliberately, so that for a moment his lashes are fanned against the freckled skin of his cheeks.

His eyes are so very, very green.

“Cas?” Dean blinks like that again and Castiel can only stare, hypnotized. “Can I pretty please have some of that pie?”

Castiel shoves the entire tin against his chest.

“Oh my god,” Sam groans. Castiel presumes it has something to do with the state of the couch, but he doesn't take his eyes off of Dean's face long enough to look. He watches Dean slide the fork between his lips, eyes fluttering closed as he moans happily.

“Ug,” Sam says. “You're disgusting.”

“You know you love m-- ow!” Dean breaks off, spraying bits of mousse everywhere when Sam punches him in the bicep, scowling.

“Someone needs to tell me why the couch is covered in hair and there's pie everywhere.”

“Gabriel did something to Cas,” Dean says thickly, around a new forkful of pie. “He's got weird new powers.”

“They are not fully under my control,” Castiel says, finally turning to Sam. “They seem to respond a great deal to my emotions.”

Sam squeezes his eyes closed, pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers. “Great. I knew that bastard did _something_. Have you tried summoning him?”

“Yes,” Castiel says, even as Dean rolls his eyes and mutters something so low that even Castiel doesn't hear it. The angel sighs, and at Sam's questioning look says, “Dean was reluctant to attempt it because he is under the assumption that I was 'molested'.”

Castiel tries using actual finger-quotes, to the effect of Dean snorting and Sam letting out a surprised laugh.

“Wait, molested?” Sam's eyebrows twitch upwards. “Like... actually?”

“I consented,” Castiel says with another, more irritated sigh. “So no?”

“There was actual sex?” Sam looks intrigued. “Wow. How does that work between angels? I mean, are there rules in vessels or something?”

“Sam!” Dean flicks the fork at Sam's face, sending little bits of whipped cream splattering across his forehead. “ _That's_ what you want to know here?”

“What?” Sam rolls his eyes and wipes it off with the back of his hand. “I'm curious!”

“Technically, Gabriel and I have our own bodies,” Castiel answers, ignoring Dean's outburst as well as the unfathomable look of betrayal he is currently receiving. “Gabriel created his, and this one became mine when I was resurrected without the soul of Jimmy Novak. However, there are no... rules, of which I'm aware. While we both occupy a vessel, we have permission to use it however we see fit.”

“Oh god.” Both Castiel and Sam turn almost as one. Dean is frozen in place. His knuckles are turning white around the rim of the tin, and there's a tight wince pinching his features.

“Dean?” Sam asks.

“I'm good.” Dean's wince deepens and he groans. “I'm g – nope!”

The pie tin is shoved back into Castiel's arms. Dean lunges for the kitchen, nearly pitching onto the floor in his haste. Castiel hears a quiet thump, then a retching sound that makes Sam snort and roll his eyes.

“He ate too much, didn't he?”

Castiel tilts his head. Dean is vomiting, he realizes. Likely into Bobby's sink. It sounds terrible, like Dean is trying to turn himself inside out. “Yes. Far too much.”

“You shouldn't have indulged him,” Sam says with a sigh, but he tips his head down and smiles at Castiel in a way that softens the words. Castiel gives him a small smile back. He knows Sam understands, and it's oddly reassuring when the angel isn't sure he understands the urge himself.

“I enjoy making Dean happy,” Castiel murmurs. “He takes such pleasure from the simplest things, when he allows himself to.”

Sam's smile fades. He sighs and gives a short, tight nod. “Yeah. That's why he was always okay with the life, before all this shit with demons and angels. I wish...” He cuts off, abruptly turning away and shielding his expression. Castiel wants to push, especially when he feels a distressing surge of pure despair from Sam, but at that moment Sam tips his head back on a soft, frustrated exhale and sees the writing on the ceiling.

“DEAN!” he bellows, storming off towards the kitchen and the quieting sounds of Dean's distress.

Castiel doesn't follow. He waves a hand and repairs the ceiling, but he leaves the hair on the couch. Perhaps Bobby will find it amusing.

~

“The hell is this?!”

Bobby is not amused. Castiel shrugs and flicks an accusing glare at Dean, who is recovering on the other couch. It's been nearly an hour, but apparently his stomach is still upset with him. Bobby responds with a quirked eyebrow and a grumble of _idjits_ under his breath.

“What happened to Tweedle-Dum?” he asks Castiel.

“I'm right here,” Dean groans, waving a hand before letting it fall onto his stomach. He lets out a pitiful moan and rubs his hand there in what Castiel suspects is meant to be a soothing manner.

“Dean ate far too much pie,” Castiel explains.

“Where'd he even _get_ too much pie?”

Castiel explains for the third time what happened to him. Bobby doesn't seem surprised, merely lets out an irritated huff of a sigh and waves a hand at his couch. “Fix that.”

The hair shrivels and pops out of existence, earning a weak laugh from Dean and an amused glance from Sam.

“You try summoning the bastard?”

“Yeah, no show,” Dean mumbles. His hand is still working careful circles over his stomach. “Fuck, why'd I eat so much?”

While Bobby and Sam continue to discuss Gabriel, Castiel approaches the couch and sits down carefully on the coffee table he'd recreated before Bobby woke. He moves Dean's hand aside and replaces it with his own, rubbing in slow circles through the thin material of Dean's black t-shirt. The hunter's body is warm, almost hot, and Castiel hums a pleased note as the heat sinks into his own skin.

“Uh... Cas?” Dean's eyes are wide. Castiel feels a shaky surge of panic from him.

“I'm sorry I can't heal you,” Castiel murmurs, ignoring the panic for now. He's still learning the various ways Dean reacts to things and touch has always caused a strong reaction.

Castiel frowns. Sam touches Dean often, and even Bobby claps him on the arm on occasion. Neither of them receive the same response. His eyes narrow as he focuses on the steady movement of his palm. When Castiel touches Dean he feels anxiety, pleasure, a desire to be closer but also to flee, and almost always there is that warmth that suffuses the angel, that he often feels from himself as well.

It's the word 'desire' sliding through his mind that makes it click. He almost laughs at himself for being so dense.

His words seem to calm Dean, who relaxes, eyelids drooping half-closed. “Not your fault,” he says. “Just... don't do this to someone else, okay? It's kinda... it might make people uncomfortable.”

“Of course,” Castiel says simply. He's stopped trying to understand why some things make humans uncomfortable; he thinks he'll learn, eventually.

He is vaguely aware of Sam and Bobby leaving the room. The scents of coffee and bacon soon drift in, along with the occasional curse and low mutter of conversation. Castiel ignores them in favor of keeping up the steady, circling pressure of his hand. Dean's abdominal muscles are firm, but there is a soft give of flesh that is completely at odds with the hard clench of them. It makes Castiel smile. When he passes his hand over it, Dean hums a soft note of contentment and closes his eyes.

 

 

“Do you feel better?” Castiel asks after a while, quietly, in case Dean is asleep.

“Hmm. Yeah.” Dean's lips curl into a tiny smile, but he doesn't open his eyes. “But, uh... you don't have to stop. If you don't want to.”

He has no intention of stopping unless Dean asks him. This quietude after so much excitement is soothing. Castiel watches the lines of stress and anger on Dean's face slowly relax, one at a time, replaced with a loose smile that causes a fluttering sensation in Castiel's stomach. He leans in closer, examining the way Dean's thick lashes fan across his cheeks, the way his lips part and his breathing deepens as he slips into sleep.

Though it has nothing on his soul, Dean's body is beautiful. So much of what makes Dean _himself_ can be seen in how his physical aspect looks and moves. Castiel finds it fascinating. He doesn't remove his hand until it is clear that Dean is deeply asleep.

He peeks into Dean's dreams to assure himself that they are good, and only then does he turn away.

Sam is standing behind him, laptop cradled carefully in both hands. He smiles softly when Castiel meets his eyes and moves to sit on the now-hairless couch.

“Got a case,” he says quietly. “I think. A bunch of people in a town in Iowa got the same red rash, all in the same place on their backs. Same size, same shape.” He turns the laptop so that Castiel can see it. “You in?”

Castiel blinks, surprised. “I... yes. I will help.” He reaches up and touches the amulet under his shirt, cool in clear defiance of his body heat. “My search for God has not been going well.”

Sam winces in sympathy, but otherwise says nothing. Castiel appreciates the silence. As much as he understands it, he's tired of Dean constantly berating his Father. It makes it that much harder to maintain his faith.

Sam turns the laptop back around. He types rapidly for a moment before his eyes flick up to Castiel again. “Any ideas on what this might be?”

Castiel shakes his head. “What do you think it is?”

“Haunting, probably,” Sam replies. “Sometimes the really bad stuff causes physical reactions if people get close to it -- but I'm guessing you already know that.”

A hint of a smile quirks Castiel's lips. “I have existed for a very, very long time. But I don't know everything. Much of what you and Dean deal with on a regular basis was unimportant to me until very recently.”

“Yeah?” Sam actually reaches up and closes the laptop, setting it aside so he can lean forward on his knees. “What else don't you know? If it's okay to ask.”

Castiel frowns, thinking for a moment. “I don't know how to operate a microwave,” he says after a moment, which startles a laugh out of Sam. It makes Castiel smile. Sam's amusement is so much different than Dean's, but no less pleasant. “Human emotions are still difficult for me. Angelic emotion is... purer, less complex. Technically, I shouldn't feel the human side of it as much as I do. I don't know why Dean panics when I touch him in certain ways. I still don't know how to use a computer.” Castiel pauses. He chuckles at himself, shaking his head and smiling when Sam grins at him. “I suppose it wouldn't take me long to learn.”

“Not about the computer or the microwave,” Sam agrees. He tosses a glance at Dean. “But why he does what he does... hell, I still don't know. And emotions might take some getting used to.” A thoughtful frown furrows Sam's brow. He glances over at Dean. “You know what's going on with him?”

Castiel shakes his head. “I only know something is. I've started to understand some of the signs, but I don't know what humans call it.”

“PTSD,” Sam says, and when Castiel stares at him uncomprehendingly he adds, “Post-traumatic stress disorder. Probably on the extreme side, considering he was in _Hell._ He refuses to admit something's up. He might not even know he --”

“No,” Castiel denies immediately. Sam's eyebrows arch, surprised. “He knows.” Castiel frowns, attempting to put it into words. He knows Dean knows he's not okay; he's felt it, often. He just... “...doesn't want you to worry,” he finishes quietly.

Sam groans. He falls back against the couch and grinds both palms into his eyes. “Yeah. Okay. That sounds like Dean.” He lets his hands fall, head rolling across the back of the couch. He tosses Castiel a tight smile. “I'm glad you know. I get so frustrated, it's nice knowing I can talk to somebody about it.” He pauses. “That's okay, right?”

“Of course,” Castiel rushes to say. Sam smiles, wider this time. More freely.

The rest of the day is passed uneventfully. Castiel makes sure to send away the pies still lingering in the kitchen, leaving only the half-eaten apple. Sam shows him the Internet and basic functions of the laptop until eventually, Dean wakes. The brothers take some time outside while Dean works on the Impala. They come back in together after dark, quiet, but it's an easy quiet that Castiel hasn't felt between them very often lately. He's glad they seem to have found an understanding.

Castiel even sleeps a little.

He dreams of fire, of hands on his body -- but they are no longer Gabriel's hands.

~


	3. Chapter 3

Iowa is flat. Iowa is _incredibly_ flat, and Castiel is fairly certain he hates it. There is something empty and unappealing about the massive level stretch of golden fields rolling on for miles beside the highway. If Castiel allows his eyes to lose focus, he sees nothing but a blurred rush of yellows streaming past the window. His stomach churns with another sharp reminder of how close he is to his body now. He turns away, resting his forearms on the front seat and leaning forward, alternating his gaze between Sam and Dean because they are much, much easier to look at.

Well. Sam is. Dean is a mess Castiel hasn't quite sorted out yet. But he's still an incredible improvement from the unrelenting landscape.

They've been driving since early morning, the Impala's tires eating up asphalt at fifteen miles above the speed limit. Castiel likes it when Dean drives fast. If he closes his eyes, he feels weightless, as close to the sensation of flying as he's able to get without releasing his wings. Though it does bring up the baffling question of how Dean is never pulled over -- which in turn leads to Dean yelling “Shut your fuckin' cakehole, Sammy!” at the top of his lungs while Sam tells Cas (with his arms over his head, because Dean is thwacking him repeatedly with a newspaper Sam picked up that morning) about the time Dean tried to flirt his way out of being arrested even though the cop was male. Apparently, it backfired in “a truly spectacular fashion” because it turned out the cop thought Dean was extremely hot, and was very much interested in being silenced with a backseat quickie.

“I _hate_ you,” Dean says. He smacks Sam one more time with the paper before throwing it at the floorboards in disgust.

Castiel tilts his head. Thoughtful, he watches Dean in the rear-view mirror for a moment.

Finally he says, “Do you not find men sexually attractive, Dean?”

Dean groans. His hands tighten briefly on the wheel. When his eyes flick to Cas's in the mirror, the angel feels that now-familiar surge of warmth from the hunter.

“Look. Even if I _was_ bi, or pan or whatever, I'm not gonna fuck somebody just to get out of a ticket. Got Hacker McGee over here to take care of that.”

Sam gapes at him. “I can't believe you even know what a pansexual is.”

Dean tosses his brother an odd, scrunched up look that Castiel thinks is probably disbelief. Then he just shrugs and says, “Knew a girl once who was, an' we talked about it a bit. It was interesting.” He glares at the road.

“No no, that's cool!” Sam says quickly, grinning. “That's really cool, Dean. Good for you. I mean, you know. For listening. That's really... good.”

“Whatever,” Dean mutters, but his lips are tight like he's holding in a smile.

The motel he chooses for them is worse than the bland scenery, even if that did improve when they rolled into town. At least there are a few trees within the town limits. Their room is at the very end of a long, single-story building. The walls are a green that Castiel knows for a fact can be compared to infected phlegm, and the bedspreads are burnt orange with light brown dots. Dean seems to find the clash in colors amusing. Until recently, Castiel wouldn't have cared, but the longer he spends with humanity the more he finds himself developing tastes. 

This is highly offensive to his tastes.

“Shit,” Sam blurts suddenly. “Dean, we didn't get a room for Cas.”

Dean turns from inspecting a hideous orange lampshade -- complete with dusty fringe -- and casts Castiel a look the angel is completely unable to read. He shrugs and tosses his duffel down on the bed closest to the door.

“He doesn't sle -- oh, wait. You were asleep this morning.”

“Yes, though only for a short time.” Castiel frowns slightly, once again attempting to find the right words for a situation that has no precedent. “I feel different in this body since Gabriel gave me my new power. I feel... _closer_ to it.”

“One of us can share if you need to sleep,” Sam says easily. When Dean glares at him, Sam sighs loudly and amends. “ _I_ can share.”

“Damn right you can share,” Dean mutters. He throws himself down on his back, sprawling out so his limbs cover as much space as possible. _Claiming his territory,_ Castiel thinks with a roll of his eyes. “Wait, so if you don't need to sleep... you're not gonna just stare at us all night, are you?”

“No.” Castiel finds Sam's duffel bag and pulls out the laptop. He sits cross-legged in the middle of the bed, balancing the computer between his knees. “I'll just stare at _you_.”

Sam covers his snort a cough. Dean flips him a casual bird, peering curiously at Castiel. “You play on the computer now?”

“Sam taught me how to use it,” Castiel replies.

“Huh.” Swinging himself upright, Dean sits back down on the edge of Sam's bed and leans in close. Castiel ignores him and clicks open the internet.

Dean leans a little closer.

Castiel draws in a deep breath he doesn't need, scenting Dean's spicy cologne, a hint of sweat and the Impala's leather seats. A mere inch closer and Castiel would be able to feel Dean's heat. The angel's fingers falter over the keys -- and the next thing he knows he's lying on his back with a full, heavy weight bearing him down into the mattress.

“What the hell?” Dean yelps, flailing back on all fours. Castiel lies there a moment, blinking up at the water-stained ceiling. “Cas? Seriously, what the hell?”

“Apologies.” Castiel sighs at the spackle. “My power... acted up.”

A muffled laugh is choked down nearby. Castiel lifts his head enough to raise an eyebrow at Sam, who proceeds to shove his entire fist into his mouth while somehow shaking his head wildly at the same time.

“N'f'ng!” Sam grunts around his hand. He pulls it out quickly. “Nothing, uh... I'm gonna get coffee. Coffee is good. Cas, you check for more rashes? While I get coffee?”

“All right,” Castiel agrees easily. He rolls himself back into a sitting position and reaches for the laptop. He doesn't mind the research. It will give him a chance to practice his new-found skills.

“Right. Great.” Sam backs into the door and fumbles blindly for the knob. When Castiel glances up, Dean is glaring at Sam with such intensity that it's a wonder Sam isn't bursting into flames.

“I'll just... yeah.”

The door slams behind him.

Relaxing, Dean sinks down onto his bed and spends the next few minutes alternating between staring at the side of Castiel's face and the far wall. Castiel opens a page that tells him two more people have reported the rash appearing on their shoulders, but he barely comprehends. He can feel Dean's gaze tingling against his cheek.

Castiel rolls back his shoulders, and casually lets his trench coat fall from his body to the bed. He tips his head, exposing the length of his neck, and hears Dean audibly swallow. It takes an unusual amount of self control to keep a smile from his face. As it is, the corners of his lips still twitch upwards in a satisfied quirk.

“Why did you glare at Sam as he left?” It's not what he wants to ask, but judging by the anxiety still roiling within Dean, Castiel knows he should approach this slowly.

“I didn't,” Dean denies on reflex. Castiel feels the anxiety ramp back up into that quiet panic Dean always manages to somehow keep from his expression.

Castiel sighs. He wishes he could understand Dean's emotional responses as easily as he feels them.

“You got anything?” Dean asks, jumping to change the subject.

“Two more rashes,” Castiel says. He shifts again, this time shrugging out of his jacket and tugging the tie even looser than it usually is. It's only partially for Dean's benefit; the new closeness to his human form has made him aware of how confining this clothing is. He runs the pads of his fingers curiously over the skin just beneath his throat. Tingles scatter through his nerves in the wake of his own touch and he shivers, pleasantly surprised.

A bold title catches his eye. Castiel lets his hand fall away to click it open. “Oh. Apparently the first people to... Dean?”

The hunter doesn't answer. He rises, strides stiffly to the bathroom, and slams the door behind him. A moment later Castiel hears the shower hiss to life, sputtering a few times before evening out.

Castiel hesitates, fingers still curled over the keyboard. Showers are a private time for the brothers. Neither of them wants to be... _observed..._ in any way while they are in the bathroom. The angel stopped peeking into their minds (with the exception of dreams, because Dean has enough nightmares) long ago. If it was Sam in there, Castiel wouldn't have a problem blocking out his emotions. But it's Dean. He has always been difficult to escape. Castiel closes his eyes to try anyway, in an attempt to respect Dean's privacy.

A low, simmering sensation curls suddenly in the pit of Castiel's stomach. He gasps, surprised and more than a little curious, and has to force himself to continue his efforts to raise some kind of barrier. He curses under his breath, briefly missing the days when human emotion didn't affect him so directly -- before he decides fiercely that no, he doesn't. As messy as it can be, it's worth it. It has to be or his rebellion was for nothing.

Castiel studies the echos of sensation that seem unwilling to leave his body. He knows Dean is pleasuring himself, just moments after Castiel tested him. _Teased_ him. Castiel's cock twitches in his slacks. He smiles, shaking his head. This just confirms it. Dean, as usual, is the cause of all his problems.

He's just not so sure he minds, this time.

Barrier firmly in place, Castiel begins scrolling through the rest of the article. He reads barely half before he takes his phone from his pocket and dials Sam.

“ _Hey, Cas,”_ Sam greets cheerfully. _“I got you a mocha. Dean says you have a sweet tooth.”_

Affection washes through Castiel in an unexpectedly intense wave. He says warmly, “Thank you, Sam. I found something new. Three of the people who first got the rash are now experiencing extreme fatigue. According to the article, the symptoms are unrelated.”

“ _Huh. Okay, that's weird. I'm coming back now, if, uh, you know. Things are all good?”_

If Sam asked him a few days ago, Castiel wouldn't have understood. As it is, the angel glances towards the bathroom and sighs. “Yes. Dean should be done by the time you get here.”

“ _Done?”_ Sam squeaks. _“Uh. Right. He's, um. Alone?”_

Somehow, it doesn't really surprise Castiel that Sam already knew. Dean is exceptionally intelligent in his own way, but Sam is far more emotionally observant. “For now,” he says, voice low with promise. “It would have been very helpful if you'd told me before that I was attracted to Dean. Then I would have at least understood before now why my body – why my cock keeps acting up.”

“ _You said cock!”_ Sam shrieks. Castiel hears at least one loud gasp and Sam muttering, “ _sorry, ma'am_ ,” in a low, apologetic tone. _“Sorry, Cas, just... I dunno, thought you'd say that more clinically or something.”_

Castiel pauses. His brows knit into a little frown, and when he takes too long to answer Sam prompts, _“Cas?”_

“I... did it on purpose,” Castiel says slowly. “This new power, it's encouraging me to act on parts of myself I had not previously explored.”

“ _Huh. But not forcing them, right? I mean, this was stuff you felt before?”_

“Yes,” Castiel answers with confidence.

“ _Okay, good. Oh, Cas? I didn't tell you because I wasn't sure how that worked. With you in a vessel, I mean. I didn't know how angels felt. Especially not after what Dean told me, when he was with Anna. She said they were cold.”_

“Not cold,” Castiel says instantly. “Angelic emotion is purer, but that's likely because outside of vessels, we don't have physical reactions complicating things. Or free will, for that matter. Attraction works very much the same with angels as it does with humans. It's... complicated, and can have various levels, up to and including sexual desire. Many of those ancient stories of angels falling for love or lust are very true.”

“ _Wow. Hey, Cas? You want my brother. Oh, and he wants you back.”_

Castiel rolls his eyes. “Thank you, assbutt. How close are you?”

A wild, violent series of muffled snorts explodes over the phone.

“ _A-assbutt?”_

Castiel frowns. “Did I say it wrong?”

“ _N-no, ass...”_ A quick flurry of giggles. _“Assbutt is fine. Just fine. I'll be there in a few minutes.”_

The line goes dead on the sound of Sam bursting into high-pitched hysterics. Castiel lowers the phone slowly, and continues to frown at it for a long moment before he tucks it back into his pocket.

~

Dean slams open the bathroom door, still dissatisfied with himself. He stalks into the room through a cloud of steam, nothing but a threadbare peach towel wrapped around his hips, shedding drops of water on the shitty carpet. His usual methods of repressing all the bullshit aren't working. He kind of wants to kick his own ass.

Sam isn't back yet. Castiel is sitting where Dean left him -- and because the universe hates Dean, the angel's tie is now completely gone, exposing just enough of his chest for Dean to get a teasing glimpse of collarbone. Dean swallows hard and forces his eyes away, stalking past the bed to his duffel. He yanks it open with one hand to dig around for some clean clothes. The towel he's got on is far too thin. Dean feels completely exposed.

“Do you feel better?” comes a low, steady voice.

“What?” Dean whips around, wide-eyed. _Uh..._ “Better?”

Castiel doesn't look up from the computer. He types something rapidly. Dean frowns at his fingers. Didn't he just learn to use that thing?

“Something was bothering you.” Cas tries for casual, but he's still figuring that one out.

Dean eyes him a moment then slowly returns to yanking his jeans from the mess of his dirty clothes. They need to go to the laundromat soon. Dean hates doing -- hey, maybe he can get Cas to do it. There's an idea.

“I'm fine,” he says shortly, pointedly not thinking about what he was just doing in the shower. His hips stuttering in an uneven rhythm, the head of his cock slicking in and out of his soapy fist. The angel's name shoved with his tongue against his teeth, only just bitten back as Dean came all over the shower wall.

 _Yeah,_ he sneers at himself. _Great job not thinking, there._

And Cas was teasing him, damn it. Dean knows he was. Has been. There's no way any of this was accidental -- and that's saying something, given that Castiel can be incredibly clueless.

Thing is, Dean doesn't know what to do about it. He knows he wants Cas. He's known since the angel threw him against the wall in the green room, eyes narrowed and so intense -- since Cas drew blood from his own vessel to paint the sigil on that same wall, standing protectively in front of Dean when Zachariah appeared.

Since the damn fool _died_ for him.

But knowing he wants Cas and acting on it are two very different things, 'specially when Dean's never gone past making out with a guy. Sure, he's been curious -- he won't even try to deny it -- but it always seemed easier to indulge the side of himself that loved women. Not to mention it's _Cas_. Whole different ballgame. He's pretty sure the angel doesn't even have a gender, technically, but he still chose to barge into Dean's life wrapped up in a male package.

And now he's picturing Cas in nothing but a big red bow. Fantastic.

So he blurts, “We need to do laundry,” and throws one of his black t-shirts in Castiel's face.

Cas makes a startled sound and reaches up to paw at the material blocking his view of the computer. It slithers down into his lap and he just stares at it, bewildered.

Dean cackles, slapping on an innocent grin when he's pinned with a glare.

“What?” he chirps, and drops his towel.

He may not know what to do about his wanting problem, but he's definitely gonna get some payback for all that teasing earlier.

“Sam should be back by now,” Dean says as he steps into his boxers like it's not weird at all, dressing in front of an angel. He and Sam, they've seen each other naked so many times it wouldn't even register -- and besides, Sam doesn't look at him with such a focused intensity.

Hell, that almost looks like _hunger._

Dean yanks his boxers up a little more quickly than he meant to. Castiel follows the movement without a trace of embarrassment or shame. _God, he isn't supposed to..._

_Fuck._

“He's on his way,” Castiel says, his voice a whole octave lower than usual. It's kinda impressive considering his normal tone is basically a growl. “I found some additional information on the case.”

“Yeah?” Dean quickly steps into his jeans and buttons them up. Castiel watches for a moment, pink tip of his tongue flicking over his lips before he returns his gaze to the screen.

“The first three people to get the rash now have extreme fatigue. I also just discovered that a large number of the victims frequent a club called 'The Pulse'.” Castiel squints at the screen and leans in closer. Dean wonders for a moment if Jimmy wore glasses, and then spends the next few seconds frantically attempting to annihilate the thought of Castiel with cute little frames perched on the bridge of his nose.

“Not, uh. All of them?”

Castiel shakes his head. “No. Maybe the symptoms are contagious?”

“Could be.” Dean turns away and paws at his duffel in desperation, praying for a clean t-shirt. He's not still thinking about Cas in glasses. He's _not._ “Sam and I took a case in Rock Ridge about a year ago. I caught ghost sickness, 'cause turns out it was contagious. Maybe this is some kinda mutation, or s--”

“Dean.”

“Huh?” Dean twists to look over his shoulder, arm halfway into his bag. “What?”

Distracted by the laptop, Castiel flaps a hand at him. “Your clothes are clean.”

The hunter blinks in surprise. He straightens and pulls his arm free, grabbing a pair of jeans he'd tossed into the 'dirty' pile. All the wrinkles have been smoothed away. When he cautiously lifts it up to sniff it smells fresh. Almost new.

“Huh.” Dean stuffs the jeans into his duffel and grabs the first t-shirt he sees, a plain black one. “Thanks, Cas.”

The angel nods once. “Sam is back,” he says, and a second later the door opens.

“Hey.” Sam kicks the door closed and sets a to-go bag down on the tiny, round table by the door, along with a drink carrier. He pulls out a plain white cup and hands it to Dean. “Black coffee,” he assures him. “There are bacon cheeseburgers in the bag, too. White Castle.”

Dean snorts around a mouthful of hot coffee, sputtering when a few drops fly up his nose. “Really?” He gasps, even as Castiel looks up from the computer. Blue eyes narrow as they locate the bag, though Dean honestly can't tell if he's being thoughtful or just glaring at it.

“Is that supposed to be amusing?” Castiel asks.

“Um.” Sam ducks his head, trying to hide a grin behind his hair as he removes another cup from the holder.

“You gotta admit, it was pretty funny when you were obsessed with those burgers,” Dean says. He takes a smoother sip of coffee and remembers the grin on Castiel's face when he was eating, the way it crinkled the corners of his eyes...

Quickly, Dean takes a seat at the table and tips the bag over. Four burgers slide out. He unwraps one right away, needing the distraction almost as much as he's just plain hungry.

“Here.” Sam holds out the cup to Castiel, who takes it with trepidation, sniffing delicately at the steam wafting lazily from it. “Lots of chocolate,” Sam says, “and whipped cream and basically sugar all around -- _Dude_.”

Dean looks up, startled, only to let out a displeased yelp when Sam snatches two burgers away. “Hey!”

“I didn't buy all of those for you,” Sam says with a roll of his eyes. He removes the last cup and retreats to his bed with the two burgers, holding them easily in one enormous hand because he's a freak of nature.

Dean thinks that last part as fondly as he's able while stewing.

“Cas? You want one?” Sam offers a wrapped lump. After a second's consideration, the angel reaches out and takes it.

“Thank you.”

“No problem.” Sam unwraps his burger, and Dean watches in confusion as his brother takes a huge bite. See, because Sam doesn't eat burgers. Ever. He eats salads and skinless chicken and bean burritos. Health-nut crap.

“You feelin' okay?” Dean has to ask.

Sam pauses half way through another bite. His eyes dart away, and he shrugs.

“M'fine,” he mumbles. “Just, you know. Felt like one.”

Dean tells himself firmly that locking his brother in some kind of metal closet somewhere will not solve anything. At least he knows what to do with the case, even if the rest of his life makes exactly no sense right now. “Cas found a club a lot of the victims went to,” he tells Sam. “Think it might be ground zero.”

“Yeah?” Sam leans forward, and Castiel helpfully turns the laptop so he can see the screen.

“Wow,” he says after a moment. “Good job, Cas. When does it open?”

“Just a minute.” Cas types rapidly for a moment, then squints at the screen again in a way that is not cute. Nope. Definitely not. And it wouldn't be cuter with glasses. _Fucking fuck, Dean. Quit._ “2 pm.”

Sam and Dean both glance at the clock on the nightstand. 11:02 am.

“Guess we have some time,” Sam says with a sigh. He stuffs the remainder of the burger in his mouth in a way that might have Dean kinda impressed, and reaches down to pick up his coffee.

It takes less than an hour for Dean to get bored and wander off in search of a soda machine, coffee already long gone. Within that time, Sam and Cas have wound up on the same bed with the laptop between them. Sam is teaching the angel how to play Freecell. Why not something useful? Dean would teach him how to fire a crossbow.

“Damn it,” Dean mutters. He walks around the corner and finds a vending machine. Digging in his pocket for change, he wonders what kind of soda Cas would like and then lets out a frustrated groan, banging his head against the front of the machine. He rolls his forehead against the cool plastic. Root beer. Cas would probably like root beer. Or cream soda, but Dean doesn't think that flavor shows up in vending machines very often. He straightens, and starts shoving in dollar bills. Two cokes for him and Sam, and after a second's hesitation, he presses the button for root beer.

When he gets back to the room, Sam and Cas have their heads bent together. Sam is outright laughing, and Cas has a real, full grin on his face. Dean freezes in the doorway, unsure if he really likes how close Sam and Cas have grown, or if it just...

Nope. Not going there.

“Hey!” Dean kicks the door closed, and the slam makes Sam jerk his head up, startled, but his laughter doesn't die. Dean tosses the coke to Sam and the root beer to Cas. Sam nods in thanks and immediately cracks open his coke, but Castiel turns the can over and over in his hands, gazing at it like it's the most fascinating thing he's ever seen.

“What's so funny?”

“Nothing, just a joke we found,” Sam says breezily.

“Whatever.” Dean grabs the remote and sits on the other bed, determined to ignore them. He flips distractedly through several channels before a news alert catches his attention.

“Uh, guys?” He cranks the volume up, flapping a hand at the screen. The attractive reporter tells them that five people are now in intensive care with “baffling symptoms,” and that anyone with the rash should come to the hospital immediately.

“Damn, this thing moves fast,” Sam murmurs. He's frowning, that deep one that furrows in between his brows like it's intent on living there permanently.

Dean glances at the clock and curses when he sees it's only 12:46.

“You guys find anything else?” he asks. “Or are you just over there playing Freecell?”

“Spider Solitaire,” Castiel corrects him calmly. “The Advanced level is exceptionally aggravating.”

Dean snorts in surprise at the same time Sam chuckles. Sam pats Castiel on the back with a fond smile and okay, damn it, Dean'll admit it. He likes that they're friends. Really likes it, because Sam is a permanent thing in his life and he wants Cas to be too, and it's just so much easier knowing that Sam won't mind.

Well. At least not the 'keeping Cas around' part. Dean's insides squirm at the thought of how Sam might react to the rest.

“We tried looking for anything supernatural that causes rashes, came up with zip,” Sam says. “Should we call Bobby? He might have something in the books.”

“Nah, lets see what we can find in the club first,” Dean says. “If it's not a haunting, maybe it's a witch.”

“Great. I hope we don't have to look for hex bags in a club.”

Around 1:30, Dean decides he can't stand the wait any longer. Sam pulls up directions to the club on his phone while Dean briefly debates whether or not he should change his clothes. He ends up sticking with just his t-shirt and jeans. Plaid might look a little out of place in a club. Sam does the same, and between the two of them they manage to convince Castiel to leave off his coats and tie. Dean thinks he looks good in just his pants and dress shirt. A little smaller, maybe, but also more relaxed. More human.

“Here.” Dean steps up and undoes the top three buttons on Castiel's shirt. The angel tilts his head but allows it, and Sam tries very hard to pretend he's not snickering as he pockets his wallet and the motel keys.

“Will this help me blend in?” Castiel asks.

“Yeah, makes you look more casual,” Dean says, firmly swallowing the words _and kinda sexy._

Castiel tilts his head just a little more. His fingers flex, like he's thinking of reaching out -- but just then Sam lets out a bark of laughter that he immediately tries to swallow, and lunges for the door.

“Sam?” Dean asks in a tone that's really asking if he should find the nearest psychiatric hospital, but Sam just shakes his head and yanks the door open.

“Nothing!” he shouts, racing for the Impala.

Dean sighs. He goes to reach for his keys and freezes.

“Did I say you could goddamn drive?!” he yells, but Sam's already firmly planted behind the wheel snickering away, and Castiel is getting in behind him because he's apparently a ninja and slipped past when Dean wasn't looking.

“Fine, whatever,” Dean mumbles to himself. He shuts the door just as their neighbors come out, a young mom with a maybe five year old boy clinging tightly to her hand. He nods and smiles at them automatically, and then frowns when the woman starts to smile back only to twist into a frown half way through.

“That's cool!” the little boy says loudly, pointing at Dean's head, but the mother shushes him and steers him away quickly.

“Okay...?”

When he slides into the passenger seat, Sam is still snickering.

“Shut up and drive, bitch,” Dean growls.

“J-jerk.” Sam starts up the car, bowing his head and snorting against the wheel.

They have to stop for gas half way there, since it turns out the club is farther than they thought and the Impala was only on half a tank when they arrived that morning. The cashier gives Dean a weird look when he takes the money, and no less than five customers do as well. Dean reaches up a few times to rub a hand through his hair, but it feels perfectly normal, and it's not like Sam's had a chance to mess with it in the last few hours. He finally decides to ignore it for now.

He steals the keys from his brother before Sasquatch can get back in the driver's seat. It makes him feel better.

They arrive at the club barely half an hour after it opens. The interior is an assault of flashing colored lights that do nothing to illuminate the place. The music is all EDM. Sam actually starts bopping his head as they make their way towards the bar, which amuses the hell out of Dean. There are a few people lined up over here, leaning in close to talk or flirt, but the majority of the club's patrons seem to be crowded out on the dance floor. The place is packed, seething with life and emotion. Dean can't decide if he's turned on or just getting hot.

“Where do you wanna start?” Sam roars over the music. Dean can barely hear him.

“Bartender?” he shouts back. Sam nods and starts making his way towards a set of empty stools.

“This place is very interesting,” Castiel says. Right in Dean's ear. The hunter barely crushes the urge to jump back about eight feet.

“Cas! Personal space!”

Castiel leans back just enough to frown at Dean, like he's a particularly interesting specimen that isn't acting like it should. “How else will you hear me? The music is extremely loud.”

“I... uh... yeah, you're right,” Dean grudgingly admits, and Castiel leans right back in. His breath rushes over Dean's ear, hot and sudden, and Dean barely suppresses a shudder.

“This is very energetic music,” Castiel says. “I like it. Why don't you play it?”

Dean shrugs. “Zepp kicks its ass.”

Castiel smiles. He's so damn close Dean can smell him, the same familiar tang of ozone but also something new, spicy and earthy. Dean tilts his head just a little and his eyes flick to Castiel's lips. They're parted slightly, just a hint of teeth and the tip of a pink tongue. Dean turns a little more, almost fully facing Cas now. He breathes in more deeply than he means to and realizes Cas smells salty, too, like sweat. Just a bare hint of humanity and _god,_ Deanwants to...

He glances up. Castiel's eyes are half closed, and his fists are clenched at his sides.

“Fuck,” Dean whispers, can't even hear it over the music. “Cas...”

“Bartender hasn't seen anything unu – oh, shit. Uh.”

Castiel sucks in an abrupt breath and turns to face Sam, who is standing just feet away with his ears turning red.

“Sorry,” he blurts. “Um. Sorry, Cas, should I...?” He jerks a thumb over his own shoulder, but Castiel just sighs and shakes his head.

“No. What did you find out?”

“Should you what? _Sam?_ ” Dean barks.

“Nothing!”

Dean scowls at those wide, guilty eyes.

“The bartender says he hasn't seen anything particularly weird,” Sam adds quickly. “But he mentioned a guy who's been coming in who looks a little out of place. Apparently he always sits at the end of the bar, kinda quiet, never dances -- looks older, like at least twenty years too old for this place. Usually shows up a little after three.”

Dean has a horrifying suspicion that he knows what Sam and Cas were talking about earlier. That Sam _knows._

“So, we have a little while,” he says instead of panicking. “Awesome. I need a drink.”

“Dude--! We're on a case!”

Dean is already shouldering his way past. _Just a beer,_ he tells himself. He just needs one beer. He's gotten behind Baby's precious wheel on way more alcohol than that.

The bartender is a thin, shaggy-haired guy in his twenties with big, brown eyes. Those eyes go straight to Dean's hair and he lets out a startled but oddly pleased laugh. “Dude! Love the look! I could never pull that off.”

Dean freezes. Once again his hand reaches up to scruff at his hair, but it still feels perfectly normal. “Uh. Thanks,” he says finally, because he's too damn tired and confused to ask. “Just gimme a beer. Anything that isn't light.”

“Gotcha,” the guy says easily. “Did you need one for your boyfriend, too?”

“Yeah, sure,” Dean says absently, and then does a double-take. “Wait, _what?”_

“Oh, are you guys not...?” The guy waits a second and, when Dean just continues to stare at him, he winces slightly. “Sorry, man. Shouldn't have assumed. Just, the way you guys were staring at each other... uh, yeah. I'll shut up now.”

He scrambles away, appearing again only to set two dark beers down in front of Dean without any eye contact before he takes off toward the next customer.

Dean groans under his breath. He rubs a hand over his eyes, and grabs the two bottles. When he turns, he can't find Sam anywhere, but Castiel is standing nearby. Even without his tie and coats, he still looks out of place. Too stiff, too curious, too blatant in the way he stares at everyone as they pass. A few people seem to like it, if the way they stare back is anything to go by. Quickly, Dean shoves himself between Cas and the crowd, thrusting a bottle at the angel in offering.

Thanking him, Cas takes the beer and pulls the cap off like it's nothing -- which is kinda cool, but also odd because most places Dean's used to take the caps off before serving. Maybe they have a problem with roofies or something. Great.

“Where's Sam?” Dean asks. He cracks his own cap off with his ring.

“Dancing.”

“Seriously?”

Sure enough, Sam is just inside the dance floor, gyrating with way more grace than Dean would have given that massive body credit for. He's being eyed by more than a few girls and at least two guys, and huh, okay. Dean might be kinda proud.

A young woman explodes out of the mass of dancers, a mess of sweaty black hair and big blue eyes, and a sizable chest that has Dean openly staring. She runs right up to the bar and laughs when she sees him looking, gesturing towards her own breasts with an open, easy smile.

“They're freaking awesome, right?” She winks at him and leans over the bar to order a few drinks. Dean turns more fully towards her, intrigued and more than a little interested. “Love your hair, by the way,” she says when she straightens. “If you'd done a lighter shade maybe not so much, but it looks great like that.”

“Okay, that's it.” Dean twists back around to glare at Cas. “What did you do?”

Castiel frowns. “I don't understand.”

The hunter waves a hand at his own head. “People keep talking about my hair!”

“Ohhh!” the women lets out a laugh and leans back to address Cas. “If you meant that as a prank, you probably should have gone with a lighter shade. It would have looked a lot funnier.”

Dean's glare intensifies.

Cas, the bastard, actually smirks. “He'll be mortified either way,” he says.

Shit. Dean needs a mirror.

Fortunately, the restrooms are in the front of the club, so Dean doesn't have to make his way through the congested dance floor to get to them. He bangs open the door and stomps straight over to the sinks, and only just stops himself from letting out an indignant yelp that's two octaves too high to be any kind of manly.

His hair is purple.

_His hair is fucking purple._

Although... Dean inspects himself, turning this way and that. It's not a light shade, like lavender or even violet. It's deep, really deep, and it actually... huh. It looks kinda cool.

Not that Dean is ever admitting that aloud. Ever.

He wonders if this was Sam's idea or Cas's, and decides it was probably Sam. He wants to be pissed that Sam goaded Cas into doing this, but then again, he played around with Cas's new abilities, too. He can hardly blame Sam for doing the same.

When he gets back to Cas, the angel meets his eyes with a defiant smirk.

“Turn it back,” Dean demands.

The angel's smirks deepens, but he twists his fingers and nods once. “Done.”

Dean glares. “Prove it.”

“The entire wall behind the bar is a mirror,” Castiel says with a roll of his eyes. “Look for yourself.”

It is? Dean turns to look more closely and sure enough, there's a long mirror running along behind the rows of alcohol. So much for needing to go all the way to the restrooms. His hair is back to its natural color.

“Sam wanted to get back at you for calling him a dill weed,” Castiel explains.

“Figured,” Dean says with a shrug. “Just didn't expect him to be sneaky about it.”

“The purple was my idea,” Cas says with pride. Dean chokes on a snort of laughter that he tries to mutate into a glare. It comes out a lot more like a grimace. “Sam wanted to turn it pink, but I thought people would react more strongly and that you would discover it too soon.”

Well, ain't that something. Dean shakes his head. “You'd make a good prankster, Cas.”

_ A good trickster.  _ The words surge through Dean's mind, but they aren't his own, and the shock of that knowledge makes Dean flinch back. At the same moment, Castiel frowns.

“Did you just --?” Dean starts, but Castiel holds up a hand to silence him.

“I can sense something,” Castiel murmurs. He tilts his head, squinting as he focuses.

“Think it's our guy?” Dean asks. Castiel shakes his head.

“It's... something else,” he replies. “I'm not sure. I'll 'keep an eye on it', so to speak.”

Dean nods, and turns to find Sam. He's gone a little deeper into the mess of writhing dancers, but now he has a shorter girl dancing with him. More like grinding. Dean grins around a surge of pride, and wonders if he and Cas can take care of this job themselves so Sam can have some fun for once.

“Dean.” Castiel's fingers press into Dean's bicep, four points of gentle pressure and warmth. Dean turns. “There.”

Dean follows the angel's gaze down to the very end of the bar. A thin older man is settling into a stool. He's dressed in khakis and an ugly brown sweater, and looks like he's at least sixty.

One sore thumb, check.

“Not a ghost, then,” Dean mutters. He leans down close so he doesn't have to shout. “Witch? Are there male witches?”

“Yes. They're also known as warlocks,” Castiel replies. “Dean, he feels... wrong. And old, very old. I don't think he's any kind of witch. If I still had solely my grace...”

The angel lets out a frustrated huff of a sigh. “I can't identify him.”

“Not your fault,” Dean says. He reaches up and rubs a hand between Castiel's shoulder blades, hoping the gesture is comforting. He waves at Sam until he sees Dean and nods reluctantly. Dean doesn't blame him. The girl seems disappointed, but she just nods and smiles in regret as Sam walks away.

“We got something?” Sam shout-asks at them.

“Old guy at the end,” Dean shouts back, and Sam's eyes dart down to check. “Cas can't identify him.”

“What should we do?”

Castiel freezes.

“Cas?” Dean steps away from the bar, and when Castiel doesn't move, doesn't take his wide eyes from the man, Dean waves a hand in front of his face. “Cas!”

“He is Pestilence.”

“As in the Horseman?” Dean and Sam blurt at the same time.

The angel nods once. “He feels ill. Everything about him feels ill. It also explains why the symptoms aren't following any particular pattern.”

“And why it's spreading so fast,” Sam continues. His eyes are wide, but they're starting to narrow in the angry look that is oh-so-familiar to Dean. “He just sits there, and lets the infection do its own dirty work.”

His hands clench into fists, and he lunges forward -- into Dean's restraining hand.

“Easy, tiger,” Dean says, as calmly as he's able considering he's pretty pissed, too. “We can't just jump him in here. Cutting off a dude's finger isn't exactly low-key.”

“We could use a summoning spell.” Castiel's eyes are still locked on the Horseman. His gaze is a narrow corridor of fury, but his voice is calm. “The ingredients might be difficult to obtain. Perhaps Bobby can help.”

“Fantastic,” Dean says. “Sam?”

“I'm good,” Sam says, and relaxes away from Dean's hand. “Let's go.”

They pile into the car in tense silence. Dean's jaw clenches as he backs out onto the street, fingers curling tightly around the wheel. He knows they're leaving someone to get infected, but the place is just too crowded. He can only hope that Pestilence will be the same as the last two Horseman. The effects of his presence will vanish once they have the ring.

Dean pulls into the motel lot a little too hard. He winces when the wheels shriek against pavement, but he knows his Baby can take it. It's what he does, anyway. He pushes everything he loves right over the edge. His eyes flick to the rear view mirror, to Castiel, who's staring fixedly out the window. Before the pit, Dean could push _and_ pull. He always pulled them back; Sam, Dad, even the car.

He kills the engine and jerks the key free. He wonders what would happen if he pulled now. Cas knows what he did in Hell, so what else is he trying to hide?

The three of them shut their doors at nearly the same moment. Sam has his phone in one hand and is twisting, opening his mouth to say something to Cas when he freezes.

“Out there,” he says sharply, nodding towards the long stretch of field beyond the motel. Pestilence is standing calmly in the grass, far enough that it's difficult to make out his features. His hands are folded in front of him like he's some sweet old man and not a ticking time bomb of disease.

“Shit!” Dean hisses. He starts to go for the Impala's trunk, but what the hell do they have in there that could fight off a Horseman? “Cas!” he yells instead, in the wild hope that the angel's new powers can help them, somehow.

Castiel doesn't move. When Dean glances at him, he doesn't even appear to be breathing. He tilts his head very slowly, and Dean feels... something. It's too quiet to be a surge. It's almost like a tickle, just a hint of something in the back of Dean's mind that _isn't his._

“Did you really think I didn't know who you were?” Pestilence asks, voice just as demure as the rest of his appearance. He doesn't raise his voice but Dean has no problem hearing him over the distance. The hunter's eyes snap away from Castiel, a million questions shoved into the back of his mind for later.

“I keep forgetting we're celebrities in the monster world!” Dean snarks back cheerfully. He spreads his arms like he's offering himself as a target. “Wanna do something about it?”

He tosses his cockiest grin, but it's rather ruined by the blood suddenly spewing out of his mouth. His stomach clenches on a sharp, bright pain that sends him to his knees. Sam manages to scream before he too is cut down with a wet gurgle. Dean sees his brother's body hit the ground and lets out a strangled “Sam!” that barely sounds like the name. He can't stand back up, he can barely breathe. He tries to push himself upright anyway -- and that's when he sees Castiel sprinting toward the field.

He tries to call out for the angel, but all that comes out is noise. The weird sensation is back, now an insistent itch, and desperately Dean just grabs hold of it and  _ feels:  _ Castiel's fear, his rage, the golden sear of his power driving him forward. 

Dean's breath rattles as he sucks it hard into his chest and screams Castiel's name.

_~_

“ _CAS!”_

Castiel flinches but keeps running. Dean calls to him again, soul-deep and scared, but still he doesn't stop. He's running on something like instinct, like faith, pure and powerful and _right._ It crashes through him in heady waves, each one cresting higher, flinging him ever closer to so much energy that he nearly laughs with the foreign thrill of it all. He slows only long enough to yank off his shoes and socks. He needs to be closer to the energy. He needs _contact..._

He feels the fire in his eyes blaze, sees their golden light against his cheeks.

Pestilence gapes at him in horrified shock.

Castiel slams to a stop so abruptly his body jars with it -- _his_ body. In this moment he feels starkly masculine, feels the flaming energy like a living thing inside him. He draws on it, stretches out his hands, and pours it into the earth. _Help me,_ he cries, silent.

The amulet burns.

Roots explode out of the ground, creaking and groaning as they twist around the horrified Horseman. Pestilence tries to stagger back, but Castiel tightens his fist and the roots tighten with it.

His quarry screams in fury. The roots pale, turning sickly and weak. Castiel snaps a hand out behind him, fingers spread until they could snap, unconsciously drawing energy from the earth. He hisses as the amulet flares against his skin. The withering disease spreads further, rapidly approaching where the roots disappear into the ground at Castiel's feet.

“Damn it, Cas!” a gruff voice barks, and then a hand slams into Castiel's.

Castiel's power _sings_. His grace is swallowed up under the rush of energy from the one he loves. Life surges through the roots, pushing back the blight, and growth swallows Pestilence before he can even cry out. Dean calls out a warning and Castiel nods, directing a root to knock the ring from the Horseman's finger before that, too, is consumed.

He blinks. The roots are gone. There is no evidence that they ever rose from the earth -- except for a new little oak tree growing where seconds before, Pestilence stood.

The power inside Castiel settles, allowing his grace to return, but it continues to wash over him in a mildly agitated way that the angel cannot ignore. He fills his lungs in a very human attempt to calm himself, and becomes strangely aware of slipping back into a genderless state. It never occurred to him before now that he might feel one way or another. He merely adopted the pronoun the Winchesters gave him, happy to use it because it made little difference to him.

“Cas?” Dean asks, tentative.

Castiel's hand snaps to his chest. The amulet is cool, but he knows he felt it burn.

“Dean,” he rasps and finally turns to face the hunter. Dean's eyes are wide, pupils blown so large with adrenaline that they have nearly devoured the familiar green. Beyond Dean, Castiel can see Sam approaching them at a jog.

Dean's hand clenches around his, and Castiel's eyes snap to their joined fingers. Their palms are pressed together, starting to sweat. Dean looks down and sucks in a strange, startled hiss. Anxiety surges through him and he yanks his hand away, but he doesn't step back.

“Dean,” Castiel says again, softer. He touches the tips of his fingers to the back of Dean's hand and Dean's eyes widen. A hesitant smile flutters across his face, and for just a second, he presses his hand closer.

“Guys!” Sam lurches to a halt beside them. Dean jerks his hand back, his eyes quickly darting away. “How in the hell did no one see that?”

For a moment, Castiel doesn't understand. Then he realizes the parking lot and field are both empty, and every motel window is shrouded by curtains.

“Lucky break,” Dean says with a shrug.

“Gabriel,” Castiel corrects, and as though in confirmation, he hears the flutter of wings. He frowns. Gabriel has become adept at hiding the sound of his flight -- which means he must have let Castiel hear, must have wanted him to know he was there.

The frown deepens into a scowl, and the thought he sends out to his brother is nearly vicious. _Why won't you answer our calls?_

“I thought I felt him earlier, in the club. Or rather, I felt Loki.”

“So, what? He's helping us now?” Dean glances around like he might somehow be able to spot the archangel.

“If that's the case, then why's he avoiding our calls?” Sam asks. His voice is dark as he says it. Castiel shivers when he feels the mess of hatred Sam harbors toward the trickster.

While the brothers begin to bicker over whether or not Gabriel truly is an ally, Castiel steps away and lifts a hand to his chest. The amulet is still cool. He gazes at the earth, to the place he knows was torn apart by roots but now appears utterly undamaged.

“Where are you?” Castiel says in a rough whisper. He kneels and presses a hand to the earth. “I felt you. I know I did.”

He presses harder, watching the soil give beneath his palm. A flush of warmth tickles against his chest, there and gone so quickly that Castiel almost believes he imagined it. Is he being toyed with? He scowls, stands abruptly, and before he really thinks to do so he's flying through the space between and coming to rest in the clearing where Gabriel performed the ritual.

The ring of stones is still there, thick in the center with ash.

Castiel strides forward. He kneels again, shifting his fingers through the delicate ash. It's so fine it feels soft against his skin, and when he brushes against it with his grace he hears the echo of drum beats, feels the bonfire lick its heat into his skin. He closes his eyes on a shudder, lips parting as he remembers the visceral pleasure of all those eyes on him, seeing him in ways he hadn't known he wanted to be seen. His agitated power -- _pagan_ power -- flares up at the memories, conflicting with his grace in a way he's been taught since his creation is wrong.

And yet God came to him when he called upon it.

Castiel's wings fold in tight, held close enough to hide as he surges to his feet and into a run.

At first, he forgets his feet are bare. The grass is soft in the clearing, but as he dives into the shadows of the trees the ground begins to fight back, roots and twigs and stones nipping and slicing at his soles. Bare human feet are not suited for running in the woods, so Castiel shifts.

It's startlingly easy. He brushes against his golden power and unconsciously pushes aside his grace. His body twists, collapsing in on itself as he reforms. It is painless. He lands on a fallen log, launches off, and when he strikes the ground it is with four furry paws.

Castiel pauses the barest moment to feel out his new form. He is considerably smaller, thick-furred and lean for speed, a nimble coyote. He wonders for a moment at how easy the change felt, how it was nothing like the first time he took a vessel's physical form. How it didn't hurt to use the power like this, and the depth of his ensuing confusion makes him tip back his head and howl.

He's just about to begin running again when something bursts out of the underbrush to his right. Castiel snarls, baring his fangs as he whirls to meet the potential threat, only to trail off into a whine of amazement. The newcomer is a stag, average size but deeply red, and the antlers that arc above his head are curved and twisted into patterns not found on any normal deer. He halts before Castiel, snorting and pawing at the earth. Castiel creeps forward, belly low to the ground in preparation to run.

_Pan_ .

The stag snorts again. He tips his head down, gazing at Castiel with enormous brown eyes.  _Run with me._

Castiel straightens. He pads silently forward and touches his nose to Pan's. _I seek God. I felt His presence._

Pan snorts once more, and Castiel thinks it sounds amused. _Run with me. You will feel the Source._

The stag nudges Castiel once, then lifts his head and flows into a run.

A high, confused whine escapes Castiel, but he follows.

He can run much faster in this form. He matches Pan's speed, navigating the underbrush and fallen logs with ease, but the more he runs the more confused he becomes. _Why_ is this so easy? Why is he following after a pagan deity in the hopes of finding a God that has nothing to do with pagans? Has he fallen so far that he's lost sight of what he's meant to be?

The questions build until he begins to panic. His grace writhes beneath the new power and he lets it overtake him, releasing his wings and burning away his new body until only his vessel remains. Pan stumbles to a halt and turns, shifting as he moves toward Castiel until he wears a more humanoid form.

“I see,” he says aloud. His voice is soft and deep. “You still don't know what you are.”

He gazes at Castiel's wings without fear. Castiel pants, more panic than exertion. He trembles when Pan reaches out and brushes fingers through the energy of his wings.

“No,” the angel agrees hoarsely. “I don't know what I am.”

Pan just nods. He lets his hand fall away. “I'm sorry. I thought I could help you.” He starts to turn away but hesitates, twisting his head to catch Castiel's eye over his shoulder. “Don't give up your search.”

He shifts back into a stag and darts into the woods, out of sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Want a visual of Dean's purple hair?](http://intotheruins.tumblr.com/post/132939013460/credit-for-this-pic-goes-to-karmascars-i-have) karmascars photoshopped a pic 'cause they're awesome.


	4. Chapter 4

“Okay, so,” says a voice too loud for the silence, “I may have made a horrible mistake.”

Sam yanks his gun from the back of his jeans and aims in less than a second, only to scowl and reluctantly lower it. “Gabriel.”

After tucking Pestilence's ring into his pocket, Dean announced he was going out for beer. Sam knows that really meant going out to the car to yell-pray at Cas about his disappearing act, but Sam is an awesome brother and he's not going to mention it. However, Dean being gone means that Sam is supposed to be alone in their room.

The trickster smirks and plucks a chocolate bar from midair. “Sammich,” he greets warmly. “How's it hangin'?”

“Great. Just great.” Sam tucks his gun back into his waistband. “There's the Apocalypse, in case you forgot. Cas has some new powers -- and oh, right, I'm still Satan's vessel. What the hell do you want?”

“Right down to business, gotcha.” Gabriel flops down on Dean's bed and bites off a sizable chunk of his chocolate.

Sam grinds his teeth and tries to stay in the grateful place. _At least he's not on mine._

“So, look, about Castiel,” the trickster says. “I just meant to give you guys a boost. You know, a little extra ammo -- well, and maybe I felt sorry for Cas. Poor kid did the right thing. Handled it, I'm not ashamed to say, _way better_ than I did, and then didn't get shit for it.”

Sam lifts an eyebrow, and when Gabriel appears to get distracted by his chocolate, heaves a sigh. “ _And?”_

Gabriel swallows a mouthful. “He's gonna lose his grace.”

Sam blinks. Gabriel says it so easily, like it's nothing. Like it isn't such a fundamental part of what Castiel is.

“So, no big deal,” he deadpans.

Gabriel rolls his eyes. “Look, Missus. He did something I wasn't expecting, all right? I gave him the powers of a Trickster, just some good old pagan chaos magic -- it's why I made it so he can't contact me. Gotta let the baby Tricksters ease themselves into their own power, you know; don't wanna influence them too much -- except ol' Cas didn't react like he should have.”

“You mean like when his emotions set it off?” Sam asks, curious despite himself.

“Nah, that's normal,” Gabriel says with a dismissive wave of his hand. “It's this whole pesky eating-a-Horseman-with-the-earth thing. He tapped into _elemental_ powers. I'm talking old magics even most 'gods' can't use.”

Sam snorts at the use of actual finger quotes.

“Shut up. It's too...” Gabriel flaps his hands, squinting into the air like he can pluck an answer from it. “It's _old_ magic, way older than any of us angels or gods. The only one I know that can use it is Pan. But that's not the point.

“Point is, it tried to eat up Castiel's grace when he used it like that -- and eventually, it will.”

“So what, then? He's gonna die because of this?” _Because of what you did?_ Sam's jaw clenches so hard it pops, his heart beginning to pound. If he loses one more person to this little shit's tricks...

“No! Idiot.” Gabriel swats a hand through the air, and somehow Sam feels it smack the back of his head, startling a grunt out of him. “He'll just... be something new? I think. I don't _know,_ okay? And that's new. Stupid. But!...” Gabriel sucks in a sudden breath and actually looks away, focusing with determination on the floor. “Taking an angel's grace from them... it's the worst possible thing to do. Even _I_ still have my grace.”

“You don't fucking deserve it,” Sam hisses.

Gabriel's gaze snaps up to meet his. “You think I don't know that?”

Sam stares, the wind sucked from his sails. That was literally the last response he ever expected.

“What?”

Gabriel sighs. “Look, I don't expect you to understand. You know why I don't. But let me endeavor to enlighten you.

“I've got absolutely no problem with the torture or even killing of a few scummy humans. If they deserve it in the eyes of Heaven, it might even _earn_ me points. But partying with the pagans? Taking time for the folks under the hill? And let's not forget the big ol' _Fuck You_ I served to Dad and them before I disappeared -- yeah, no. I'm no archangel, not anymore.” He laughs, mirthless and bitter. “If I had the guts I'd probably tear out my remaining grace and be done with it.

“Big fucking surprise, I don't.

“But Cas, on the other hand? He's everything an angel _should_ be. And he definitely doesn't deserve to lose that part of himself just because I don't know how to giftwrap a thank-you present.”

Sam's nails are digging into his palms. He hauls in a sharp breath through his teeth, and forces his fingers to relax one by one. He studies Gabriel's face, that he memorized and swore he would find so he could rip it apart. It seems pointless now with the archangel so diminished. If he could see Gabriel's wings, he bets they'd be drawn in and holding tight.

“So,” he says after the silence begins to drag, “what do we do?”

“Nothing,” Gabriel says. A deft flick of fingers vanishes the candy and he surges to his feet. He takes a single, deliberate step towards Sam, tawny eyes flaring gold. Sam sways back, startled.

“You can't tell him. There's nothing we can do, that I know of, and if he knows then he'll just agonize over it. You know how he is. I just... I wanted someone to know, so you can...”

Gabriel ducks his head. It's the meekest thing Sam has ever seen him do.

The trickster lets out a long gust of a breath and straightens. “I get that you hate me. You have every right. But I also know you care about Cas, so I'm asking you to watch out for him. Be there when he needs it. Okay? I'd tell Jimmy Dean but let's face it, he'd just go on some insane savior's quest. I'll keep looking, I will -- but I don't wanna give 'em false hope.”

Sam wants to say no. If not merely on principle, then because there could be a way to help Cas. Just because Gabriel says there isn't doesn't mean a damn thing.

But the look on the trickster's face is familiar. Too familiar. It's the same lost expression Dean gets in his eyes when he thinks Sam is in trouble and doesn't know how to help.

“Fine,” he growls. He prays he won't regret this, and then almost laughs aloud -- who is he even praying to anymore? “I won't tell him, but you better keep looking.”

“Obviously! _Gosh._ ” Gabriel's tone is abrasively cheerful and his stance relaxes, but Sam can see the worry gnawing behind his eyes. How alike Gabriel and Dean are in this moment makes him more than a little uncomfortable.

“Now,” the trickster drawls, “if you'll excuse me--?”

He vanishes with a cocky wave. Moments later, Castiel appears in the very same spot, eyes wide and breath coming in short, frantic bursts.

“Cas!” Sam lunges forward, getting both hands on the angel's shoulders to steady him. He tries to ignore the way his stomach seems to drop into his feet. Maybe they're too late. Maybe his grace is already gone.

“Sam.” Castiel reaches out and grasps Sam's arms, gripping hard enough to bruise and then some. Sam winces, but doesn't let go. “I...” Castiel looks like he's searching for the words. “Sam, I _changed.”_

“Changed?” Sam frowns, eyes immediately roving over the angel's form for any injuries, or anything out of place. It occurs to him as he does that Castiel flew here. His grip relaxes just a little -- Castiel's grace is thus far intact. “Changed how?”

“I turned into a coyote.”

“Uh.” Sam blinks. “Okay. I don't know what to do with that. How did you do that?”

“I just... wanted to,” Castiel says, shaking his head a little wildly.

The angel's breathing is getting harsher, so Sam encourages him to sit. Castiel's clinging grip on his arms slides down but doesn't fall away, and Sam finds he kind of likes it. Dean has always had trouble asking when he needs help, especially since he came back from Hell, so for Sam it's a nice change of pace to have someone reach out so easily.

“I felt the amulet burn,” Castiel murmurs. He has fixed a blank stare somewhere just over Sam's right shoulder. “I thought God was nearby, but when I tried to find him I found myself back at the place where Gabriel changed me. Pan was there, he wanted to... help me, I think, but then said he couldn't.”

“The amulet burned?” When Castiel nods, Sam grins. “That's good, right?”

One of the angel's hands presses to his chest where Sam guesses the amulet lies. “It's gone now. I couldn't find it again,” Castiel says softly, almost childlike.

“Hey.” Sam bends down a little further, trying to catch his gaze. “Hey, it's okay. That's something to hope for, at least.”

Castiel doesn't respond. His hands go slack and slide down from Sam's arms, falling limp into the angel's lap. He looks so tired, so _done,_ and if Sam hesitated to tell him about his grace before, he's certainly not doing so now.

He shoots a quick _Cas is back_ text to Dean before pocketing his phone, and sinking onto the bed beside Castiel.

They sit in silence for a while. Castiel eventually sways into Sam's personal space, and Sam slings an easy arm around the angel's shoulders. Cas casts him a grateful look, and after a moment, seems to relax. Sam asks if he wants the TV on, but Castiel just shakes his head and murmurs a quiet _no_.

Sam's phone buzzes. He works it carefully from his pocket without taking his other arm from Cas's shoulders. _omw_ is all it says.It won't take Dean long to get here. He's probably already breaking every traffic law to make sure Castiel is okay.

That doesn't leave Sam a lot of time.

“I'm going to say yes to Lucifer.”

He feels guilty almost as soon as he says it, because Castiel has enough on his plate, he doesn't need another load dumped on him -- but damn it, Sam had to tell someone. Gabriel came looking for somebody to watch out for his little brother, and now Sam needs the same for his older brother.

“I see,” Castiel says. Calm, quiet, not a hint of alarm.

“I think I can overpower him,” Sam continues in a rush, since Cas isn't arguing. “I can jump in the pit, take him with me. No battle, no Apocalypse. Everybody lives! Well...” Sam sucks in a shaky breath and tries for a grin. He's pretty sure it's a grimace. “Go ahead. Tell me it's a terrible idea.”

“I will,” Castiel says. He tilts his head so he can see Sam without dislodging his arm. “I will tell you that, if it's what you want. But it's not what I think.”

Sam is so surprised he doesn't know how to react, so he just blinks.

“We're out of options,” Castiel tells him simply. “If Dean says yes to Michael then half the world dies, if not more. There's no way to force Lucifer into the cage in his current vessel. He'll just leave. Your idea would save the entire world with the loss of... just one.”

The angel's hand shoots out and squeezes Sam's knee. Castiel 's eyes lock onto his own hand. They glaze over again, for a moment, but then he shakes his head and frowns.

“I don't want you to die,” he says. He grips Sam's knee a little harder.

Sam sucks in a stuttering breath and nods once. “You know we can't tell Dean.”

“I know,” Castiel says. He squeezes again, and Sam closes his eyes. He tightens his arm around Castiel's shoulders in a half-hug, so grateful for his friend and the angel's calm just then that Sam can think of no other way to properly express it.

Dean chooses that moment to barge through the door like he was breaking it down. The knob hits the wall and bounces back, nearly smacking Dean right in the face, but he side-steps to kick it shut. His eyes flick over the angel's form like he does to Sam when he's checking for injuries. When he finds none, he lets out a massive burst of breath and glares at Cas. Really glares, complete with bared teeth and narrow, frightened eyes.

“What the hell, Cas?” he grits out.

Sam lets his arm fall from Castiel's shoulders, but he doesn't move away. He kinda wants to, though; he's pretty sure he's about to witness a full blown lovers' quarrel. Or have they gotten that far yet? Nah, there hasn't been time. Besides, Sam can practically see the tension woven through the air between them. No _way_ that's been resolved.

“I thought I felt God,” Castiel says.

Dean's fury cracks and falls away like a brittle mask. His eyes widen and he takes a few rapid steps forward with a hand reaching out like he's going to grasp Castiel's shoulder-- but then he sinks onto the end of his bed instead.

 _Chicken,_ Sam thinks despite himself.

“Big guy made an appearance, huh?” Dean says. His tone is flippant, as though that could somehow negate the fact that his eyes are still wide with shock.

“The amulet burned.” Castiel reaches up and presses his palm to his chest, frowning slightly. “I know I felt it.”

“Okay. Okay, that's good, right?” Dean leans towards Cas, lips twitching like he's preparing to smile, but it fades when he sees the confusion on Castiel's face. “No?”

“I don't know,” Castiel confesses quietly. “If he's there, why won't he speak to me?”

“Maybe he's as big a dick as the rest of your family?”

“ _Dean!_ ” Sam hisses. He cuts a hand through the air in a ' _shut the fuck up_!' gesture. Dean shrugs, ' _whaddaya want? It's true'_ but rolls his eyes at another insistent swipe of Sam's hand and nods.

“Turns out Cas can shift into new forms now,” Sam says aloud, hoping that golden nugget of information will distract Dean from dissing on Castiel's absent Dad again. He knows Dean means well, probably thinks he's making Cas feel better. Dean hasn't seen -- or more likely, is choosing not to see -- the despair in Castiel's eyes, the hopelessness and the terror that Sam thinks means Castiel is beginning to agree with Dean.

“What, like a shapeshifter?” Dean's eyes narrow again, and his fingers flex with instinctual need to reach for something silver. Sam wonders what it could mean that he didn't have the same reaction.

“I didn't have to tear my skin away, or murder anyone,” Castiel says dryly. “I just changed. I was... distressed when I couldn't find God. I started running, but I didn't have my shoes. I merely shifted to better suit my needs.” Castiel's voice grows softer as he speaks, and Sam's hand finds Castiel's shoulder again when he sees the distance in those eyes.

“Hey,” he says softly. He gives the angel's shoulder a squeeze. “Hey, come back.”

Castiel tips his head towards Sam, but the distance continues to grow. Dean half rises from his seat, glancing uncertainly between them. Sam gives a single shake of his head and Dean sinks back down, but his eyes settle and lock on the angel's face.

“Cas?” Sam gently knocks his boot against Castiel's bare foot. “I put your shoes and socks over by the door. And your coats are on the chair. You want to put them back on?”

Dean's eyes flick to him, both eyebrows raised and mouth twisted into a confused frown. Sam mouths _'trust me'_ and when Dean nods, it feels like Sam's been kicked in the gut. It took them so long to get back to trusting each other, of course it finally had to happen right before he went and...

Sam shakes his head, and throws himself into the task at hand.

Castiel is still too far away to properly respond, so Sam gets up to gather both socks and shoes, along with the trench coat. He leaves the tie and jacket folded neatly over the chair. He can feel Dean's eyes on him as he kneels in front of Castiel and starts working on the left sock. Good, maybe the jerk will take notes. Sam knows Dean isn't stupid. He'll figure it out.

“You're trying to anchor him,” Dean blurts suddenly, and then surges to his feet. “Sam.”

He needs to help. Sam nods once and lifts Castiel's foot so he can slip on his shoe. “Sit next to him, try to get him to look you in the eye. He needs something familiar to focus on.”

Dean moves around Sam to sit down on Castiel's right side. He knocks his shoulder against Castiel's and says his name softly. Sam pretends not to hear, because he doesn't think he's ever heard Dean sound so tender before. He truly doubts Dean wants him listening in.

Sam gets Castiel's other shoe and sock on, and by the time he starts sliding one arm into the trench coat, Castiel is looking into Dean's eyes. Neither of them are saying a word, just staring so deeply that it makes Sam feel like an intruder. Dean swallows hard and, as Sam watches, leans in just a little.

“Budge up a bit, I need his other arm,” Sam says. Dean starts and jumps back so fast and so far he nearly topples off the other end of the bed. Chuckling, Sam goes for Castiel's arm, only to get startled himself when Castiel lifts it and slides it into the coat, shrugging his shoulders until it settles into its usual place.

“You with us?” Sam asks, and sighs with relief when Castiel nods and tips his head back to look at him.

“My apologies,” Castiel says gruffly. “I'm... not sure what just happened.” He looks down at his shoes. “Oh. Thank you.”

Sam smiles. “I think you tried to disassociate,” he says. “Sometimes that happens to a person when they're overwhelmed, and you did say you're feeling closer to this body.”

“I see.” Castiel's flat tone says he definitely does not see. “Where was I?”

Cautiously, Dean slides closer to Castiel. He eyes Sam once before settling a few inches away, and Sam almost laughs. He has to bite the inside of his lip to keep it at bay.

“You were talking about shifting,” Sam reminds him.

“Tricksters can shift, can't they?” Dean asks. And then, quickly, “You were _thinking_ about being a trickster. In the club.”

“You heard that?” Castiel says, surprised.

Dean sighs, reaching up to rub a hand across his eyes. “Yeah, I think so. Sam?”

“Yup,” Sam says, hauling himself to his feet. He grabs his laptop and charger, and heads for the door. “Call me if you need me.”

It's hard to leave, to let them have the privacy he knows Dean wants for this conversation. Nothing is certain, but Sam suspects their connection went a little deeper than usual. Castiel always comes more quickly when it's Dean calling, and Dean often reacts to signals from Castiel that Sam knows aren't actually visible.

If Dean can hear Castiel's _thoughts_ , well... that's intimate.

And intimacy, Dean, and an audience have never gone well together.

~

“There is a piece of me inside you,” Castiel tells Dean.

The flurry of emotion he gets in response is confusing, as is the way Dean surges to his feet and strides several paces away. There's that surge of heat that indicates arousal, but also a sense of deep discomfort and a desire to hide. It muddles Castiel's usual erotic response to Dean's desire and mutates it into an intense need to comfort, though he refrains from rising and going to Dean.

“Like... your grace?” Dean asks slowly. One hand twitches up toward the shoulder that bears Castiel's hand print.

“No. Grace is... very simply put, an angel's body. While your soul is within your body, the two are almost indistinguishable. It's the same with an angel's soul and grace. I used a piece of my soul to heal you when I raised you from Perdition. It's why you sometimes sense what I'm thinking, or react to things I haven't said. It also means I can deeply sense your emotions.”

Castiel senses alarm from Dean just seconds before the hunter's eyes fly wide. “Wait, so you...? Do you...?” The panic spikes and then, oddly enough, it settles. Dean lets out an explosive breath and shakes his head, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “Well, shit.”

Castiel tilts his head. Dean waves a hand at himself, smiling in a way that's small and boyish. “How much did you, you know, uh. Pick up?”

What he's getting from Dean feels vulnerable, far too raw and open from what Dean has just learned. The desire to be standing beside him blooms with an almost violent force and then Castiel is there, pressed in against him with Dean's hand tucked into his own. Dean jumps and immediately steps back, though he doesn't release Castiel's hand.

Castiel sighs. “My apologies.”

Dean offers him a smirk, but Castiel can feel anxiety and anticipation coiled inside him. “Your new mojo wants all up in my business.” His eyes dart everywhere, but his fingers are lacing through Castiel's as he speaks.

“I should have told you,” Castiel says. “I'm sorry.”

Dean shrugs. Both a dismissal and an acceptance. He tugs his hand away, studying the floor. When Castiel tips his head in question, Dean says, “Guess it's stupid, I can't exactly hide from you. Which, gotta be honest, ain't fair.”

“I can block it to an extent,” Castiel says. He feels a smile in his eyes when he looks at Dean. “But it's extremely difficult. If it would help, I could teach you to feel more of what I'm feeling.”

“Yeah, okay.” Dean stands up and takes a few steps, putting some distance between them, but tosses a quick grin at Cas. It's reassuring. “Level the playing field, right. But _first._ ” The grin widens, taking on a gleeful spark that Castiel remembers from the morning he woke with these powers.

“First?” he prompts, and Dean actually _bounces_ on the soles of his feet.

“Turn into something.” Dean's grin falters. He adds, “You know, if it won't make you check out again.”

Castiel stares. He tilts his head and wonders, yet again, how Dean can be annoying and endearing all at once.

“Something,” he deadpans.

“Yeah. The coyote. Or a raven, or something. I dunno.” Dean bounces again, just once, up and quickly back down like he just can't help himself. “I figure if it's something you can do, might be useful to control it.”

A raven. Castiel considers the idea of becoming a winged creature and finds it intriguing. For an instant he's back in the forest on four paws, and he hisses softly through his teeth at the surge of fear the image conjures. Then he looks at Dean, at those eager eyes, and relaxes at the idea of doing it for _him_. For Dean, it wouldn't be frightening.

Castiel closes his eyes, seeking out that surge of power, and the next thing he knows he's launching into the air. He opens his eyes and everything looks huge -- the bed, the room, it's all been remade for giants. Dean lets out a bright burst of laughter and holds out his arm, and Castiel instinctively goes to him, curling his clawed feet around Dean's sleeve. He settles his wings in against his sides. They're nothing like his own wings, too starkly physical, but they still feel good.

“Dean,” he caws, startling himself. He forgot ravens can speak when they choose to.

Dean grins. “Hey.” He reaches up and rubs the back of his hand down Castiel's feathery breast. “You're a good lookin' raven.”

His hand pauses and he groans, closing his eyes on a mortified expression. “Never tell Sam I said that.”

Castiel makes a clicking sound with his tongue. He flaps his wings, and relocates himself to Dean's shoulder so he can run his beak carefully through Dean's hair.

“Whoa, that feels weird,” Dean says, laughing when Castiel does it again. “All right, all right. Get off, ya feathered menace.”

Castiel shifts back to his human form as he dives for the floor. When he turns, Dean has backed several paces away. “Dean, I don't understand.”

“Huh?” Dean's still grinning, but he has one of the beds between them now.

Castiel tilts his head. “You crave touch. Affection. But when someone gives them to you, you shun the gesture. Why?”

Dean pauses. Castiel feels out his emotions and senses hesitation, but also desire. A block starts to go up, Dean trying to refuse his own emotions, but then he lets out a curse and the desire floods back in.

“Guess there's no point trying to hide it, huh?” he says, more to himself than Castiel. He grimaces, something Castiel suspects was meant to be a smile.

“Is it because of your... PTSD?” Castiel asks hesitantly. When Dean looks at him in surprise, he adds, “Sam and I discussed it.”

It occurs to him only after he's said it that he may have just betrayed Sam in some way, but it's too late to swallow the words now.

Dean scowls. “Great. I didn't want him to -- well, shit.” Dean scrubs a hand through his hair, dark glare fading back into a grimace. “Guess I'm not hidin' it as well as I thought?”

“No,” Castiel says simply. He's surprised when Dean laughs, more so at himself. He should be used to Dean's unusual responses to him by now.

Dean bites his bottom lip, chewing thoughtfully for a moment before he sucks in a breath and says in a rush, “I have these bad days where I can't accept anything good.”

He pauses, then, “Okay, most days.”

Castiel is silent. He still doesn't know all the terms, is still swimming through the mess that is human emotion attempting to find stable footing, but he's spent most of his existence as a strategist. Where there appears to be no way, he always finds one.

Armed with that encouragement, Castiel lets himself sort through what he knows to find the most appropriate words, even as Dean fidgets and runs his hands restlessly over his own thighs.

Castiel refuses to let that distract him.

“You've been conditioned,” he says finally. It feels as close to correct as possible.

Dean's brows furrow together, lips in a tight frown. He opens his mouth, closes it, lets out a huff and then shrugs. “Yeah,” he says, discontent but convinced. “I guess that's... yeah.”

The angel takes the few steps required to bring him to Dean, wrapping a gentle hand around the back of Dean's head to prevent escape. On impulse, he leans in and presses a soft kiss to Dean's cheek, leaning his face against Dean's. The hunter makes a strangled noise but goes still, breath rushing hard and fast against his skin.

“I used to wonder why you reacted so violently whenever I said good things do happen,” Castiel murmurs. He feels Dean shudder against him, but then he begins to relax. He lets Castiel press another soft kiss to his jaw. A muscle ticks beneath Castiel's lips, but he only presses in more firmly. This, more than the words, feels right.

Castiel brushes a kiss against Dean's throat, then pulls back and tugs until Dean's lips are there, right there, close enough to...

“Do you believe I will hurt you?” Castiel asks, feeling the tingle of his own breath and anticipation.

Dean stares at him through narrowed eyes, breaths coming short and shallow now. Castiel parts his own lips just so he can taste those puffs of air rushing over his tongue.

“No,” Dean says. His voice is low and rough.

“Good.”

The angel tugs him down into a kiss.

Castiel has never tried anything like this in all of his long life, never had more than a passing curiosity. He's observed, he knows the mechanics behind physical affection, but now in the moment he finds he can't remember any of that. He lets his hand slide down to cup Dean's cheek, and presses a little more firmly, a little closer. Dean lets out a shaky sigh through his nose, tilts his head and oh, that's better, that fits.

Dean pulls back after a moment, a soft and nervous laugh dying behind a bitten lip. When Castiel frowns in question Dean just shakes his head. “Sorry. Just, uh. Remembering my first kiss.”

“Did I do it wrong?” Castiel asks. Dean immediately shakes his head again, firmer.

“Nah. C'mere.”

This time Dean pulls _him_ in with a hand around the back of his neck, thumb and fingers easing into his hairline, but instead of pressing their lips together he swipes his tongue across the seam of Castiel's. The angel gasps at the wet touch and Dean sweeps his tongue into the opportune opening, sliding across the angel's own. Smooth, hot pressure. Teasing. Dean presses in with his whole body, dipping Castiel's head back in a silent demand, and Castiel lets himself melt against the hunter as he moans and opens his mouth wider.

_Dean?_

Dean pauses. His hand tightens on the back of Castiel's neck. Castiel feels him trying to answer, reaching out with his soul. The effort is impressive.

The hunter pulls back, just a little, enough to murmur, “Was that you?” against Castiel's lips.

Castiel nods. “You're trying too hard,” he says, his own murmur rough. “Think like you're speaking directly to me.”

Dean closes his eyes. He tips forward, carefully brushing their foreheads together. Castiel _feels_ more than hears his own name being sent to him.

_Cas._

And then a knock at the door sends Dean surging back, anxiety crashing down atop him like a bucket full of ice water. He sucks in a breath and clenches his fists, but he casts Castiel a quick, nervous smile before turning to the door.

“What?!” he yells, with an implied _this had better be fucking good._

“ _Um,”_ comes Sam's voice, muffled by the door. _“So, it's kinda late. The coffee shop closed, and so did the library. Are you guys done?”_

Dean flushes. He throws another, borderline shy glance at Castiel.

The angel smiles.

“Yeah,” Dean calls, his eyes not leaving Castiel's. “Come in.”

The door opens and Sam spills in, his hair a mess. He looks exhausted. Castiel glances at the clock, and is surprised to see that nearly two hours have passed.

“Sleep, need sleep,” Sam is muttering. He dumps his laptop on the table and glances at the beds, doing a miniature double take like he expected to see something different. “Are we heading back to Bobby's in the morning?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean says, looking relieved for a reason Castiel can't determine. “Uh. Cas? You wanna get a room, or...?”

Castiel can sense discomfort, but also excitement and acceptance. “I want to check on the people in the hospital,” he says, which immediately eases Dean's discomfort. Castiel almost smiles. Dean thinks Sam doesn't know.

“I'll return in the morning,” he assures them both.

The stretch of his wings -- of his grace, breaking the boundaries of his still-too-new form -- is a powerful relief. But it is no longer a pure one. The golden pulse of his pagan power only seems to grow more insistent in the middle-space of flight. He means to fly to the hospital but finds himself veering off, driven by a very human instinct deep into Northern woods. He thinks he might be in Idaho. Perhaps Montana. Not knowing doesn't distress him like it should. It excites him.

His grace flickers weakly beneath the gold, and Castiel lands in a clearing ringed in a near-perfect circle of trees.

A deep laugh reaches his ears. Castiel looks up from the ground. The faun Brenar is standing nearby, just outside the light of a fire very similar to Gabri-- Loki's. There are less of them this time, just a handful of fauns and two dryads, with Pan sitting cross-legged on a rock playing a low, haunting tune on his pipes. Their eyes lock for a moment. The lines around Pan's eyes crinkle, warm and welcoming, though he never quite grants a smile.

“Hello, beautiful!” Brenar greets, holding out a hand to Castiel. The angel takes it.

“I didn't mean to come here,” he murmurs as he's led towards the fire.

Brenar nods. “Now that Loki gave you your power, it will be easy to find circles like this. Are you adjusting well?”

Castiel snorts. It's such an indelicate sound it makes him start, but he decides it fits his feelings on the subject quite well. “Not... well, no. It conflicts with everything I thought I was supposed to be.”

Brenar sinks down into the grass, a comfortable distance from the heat, and tugs until Castiel joins him. Pan is mere feet away now, still watching. When Castiel glances at him, he shifts fluidly into a new song, quick and playful with a sharp edge. Castiel feels the aching desire to run -- and whether he wants to chase or be chased, he is not sure.

“I've heard stories about when Loki first appeared,” Brenar says quietly. He leans in, his words meant just for Castiel. “Before he was really Loki. It took him some time to adjust as well.”

For some reason, that makes Castiel smile.

Brenar says nothing further. Castiel crosses his legs and leans forward into the heat, closing his eyes and breathing it in, drawing it deep into his lungs.

Pan's song grows wilder. Nearby, a rapid drum-beat joins it. Castiel breathes in again, harder, drawing the acrid smoke in so far that it burns him from the inside out. He recoils, choking. When Brenar slides a hand between his shoulder blades, Castiel shudders and turns away.

“Are you all right?” Brenar asks.

Castiel stares down at his hands. “I wanted to know what it would be like to burn,” he murmurs. He imagines his skin bubbled, black and peeling, and he shudders.

Brenar doesn't speak. Castiel thinks he can hear the faun's frown, though, as Brenar rubs his hand in circles and Castiel continues to stare at his fingers.

_I'm going to say yes to Lucifer_ .

Pan's song changes, abrupt and harsh, the notes tripping over each other in a grating frenzy. Castiel twists to stare at him. The music elicits such a tight and immediate fear. It squeezes his lungs, makes him desperate to rise and run.

Pan stands and throws down his pipes. The faun beside him plays on, apparently oblivious to the wild fury in the deity's green eyes.

“Harming yourself helps _no one,_ ” Pan snarls.

He storms past the fire and into the trees, his body melting into the shadows.

Brenar turns a quizzical look to Castiel.

“It's nothing,” Castiel says. He wonders when it became so easy to lie.

Brenar looks doubtful, but he leaves his hand on Castiel's back and only nods.

“Will you still be here?” Castiel asks after a moment. “In a few hours. Will this still be here?”

“Oh yes,” Brenar says. “We'll be here til dawn. Are you leaving?”

“Yes.” Castiel surges to his feet. “I'll be back soon.”

Dean will like this. It will scare him at first but then he'll see it's not evil, and he'll like it the same way he liked Castiel's ability to shift. The angel focuses on that, the calm and the joy that the thought of sharing this brings him, and not on the terror gnawing at the edges of his resolve.

“There will be more of us by then,” Brenar warns him. “Will your intended be comfortable with that?”

Castiel blinks. “How did you know I was bringing Dean?”

“We're all connected here. And you are easy to read.”

Some part of Castiel -- that he thinks might actually be Dean -- feels like it should be offended by that. “He'll be fine,” Castiel says.

Brenar inclines his head, and that's the last thing Castiel sees before he takes flight again.

He does stop at the hospital on his return to Bobby's house. Most of Pestilence's victims have already gone home, but there is one walking out when he arrives. She is arm in arm with another woman. They are young, high on the relief of being alive, and laughing with it. Castiel watches them climb into a small green truck, refusing to release each other until they must. Castiel reaches into the mind of the victim, unable to help himself even though he knows Dean would disapprove.

Her name is Katy, her girlfriend is Riley. They've been together five years. They own a tiny studio apartment littered with half-finished musical compositions and more pillows than Castiel has ever seen in one room.

The angel withdraws before he takes in too much, and finds himself wearing a wide smile.

Finally, something pulls Castiel away: it's Dean, praying to check on him. Only when he arrives in Bobby's living room does he realizes it's nearly midnight. He forgets, sometimes, how quickly time advances.

He forgets there can be so little of it.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel greets, and reaches out to place two fingers against his forehead. Dean automatically flinches back, but when he feels a memory pour into his mind rather than the sudden jolt of flight, he settles.

“That's... wow.” Dean grins, hazy as he 'remembers'. “Thanks, Cas.”

His grin instantly flips into a frown. “You didn't, you know, look too much?”

Castiel shakes his head. “Only what little you saw. I will show Sam, later.”

“Later?”

Castiel lowers his hand and flicks his fingers towards the coffee table. A note appears there for Sam, assuring him that they are fine and not to worry, they will return in the morning. “I want to show you something. But it requires flight.”

Dean frowns. “Is it important?”

“To me, yes,” Castiel replies honestly.

The hunter continues to mull for a moment, dubious, but then he acquiesces and steps closer.

Castiel smiles.

He takes them to the outskirts of the circle, just outside the trees. Brenar was right; the numbers have swelled to at least twenty. Several dryads are singing now, and more fauns have joined in the drumming, though a quick glance reveals that Pan has not returned.

“Cas?” Dean asks, low and wary. His eyes dart over the fire and the various pagan creatures dancing around it. “Is this where Gabriel brought you?”

“Yes. A different state, I think. But yes, this is where it happened.”

Brenar notices them and lets out a loud, wild whoop. The drum beat picks up, the dryads turn to watch them, but no one approaches.

“Why are we here?” Dean asks. His voice is gruff, but he shows no signs of anger. For that Castiel is relieved.

He doesn't answer, instead kneeling and lifting Dean's left foot, placing it carefully on his bent knee. Dean stares down at him as Castiel unlaces his boot and tugs it away, tossing it into the shadows. His sock follows. Castiel places Dean's bare foot back into the grass and lifts the other, giving it the same treatment. He feels the surge of power, of _right,_ when Dean has both bare feet in contact with the earth, and sends his own shoes and socks away with a thought, curling his toes into the grass with a contented sigh.

“Cas?” Dean's voice is soft. “What's going on?”

Castiel tilts his head. He reaches out to Dean in spirit, feels Dean struggle to reach back.

“Follow me,” Castiel begs, and runs towards the fire.

~

Now, on one hand, Dean doesn't know what the hell to do. He's been trained to view magic as evil, no two ways. There is no pretty little harmless version wrapped in a nice big bow.

But on the other hand?

This is not evil.

The bonfire before them is massive. Tongues of flame lap at the air in Möbius strips like they can climb each other straight into the stars and still end up here, at the root of it all. The heavy pounding of drumbeats is hypnotic, encouraging Dean to sway, to lift his feet and beat that rhythm into the earth.

The earth; god, he can _feel_ it, thrumming up through his soles and pouring energy into his veins.

And then there's Castiel. By the time the angel reaches the fire his shirt is open, hair wild, bare feet speckled with bits of grass as he begins to dance. He rolls his shoulders back and the shirt flutters to the ground, caught up almost immediately by one of the dark tree women. She rolls it over her hands and tucks it against her breast, and when she sees Dean looking she giggles, high and girlish. She runs towards Dean, root-like feet easily gripping the earth when she comes to a stop less than an inch from him.

“Here,” she whispers, like they're sharing a secret, and hands him Castiel's shirt. She giggles again when Dean takes it, and leans up to kiss his cheek. Her lips are rough but it makes Dean grin anyway.

“Now go,” she says, and shoves him towards the fire. Toward Castiel.

Dean stumbles at first, gripping the shirt too tightly in both fists even if he's not sure why. But then he gets his feet under him, curls his toes into the dry grass before he takes a few steps forward. Castiel whirls in a tight circle, brings his left foot down, slams it into the earth to the same beat as the faun's drums. He grins slow and feral when he sees Dean watching him, and Dean's mouth goes dry when the angel's hips grind in a slow, deliberate gesture.

“Fuck,” Dean hisses, and sprints the last few feet to halt within Castiel's aura.

Their darkening gazes clash in the space between.

_Can you feel it?_ Dean flinches when he hears the thought so clearly, but this time, he doesn't shy away from it. Castiel looks so earnest. 

_Yeah,_ Dean answers. He can. He's never had much time for running around barefoot, not even as a kid, but he has vague snatches of rose-tinted memories from before Mom died. He hated shoes. He played all day in the backyard with his bare feet in the grass, and at that age, the power he felt seemed so natural. 

“Cas,” Dean says aloud. If he was anywhere else, he'd deny the yearning in his voice -- but he isn't, so he doesn't.

Castiel reaches for him. Stills with his back to the fire and takes both of Dean's hands in his, tugging, shirt drifting back down to the ground. Dean shakes his head; he doesn't like to dance.

“No,” he says.

Castiel stops tugging, but he doesn't let go. “It's okay,” he says. He steps forward and leans in, nuzzling at Dean's cheek, smiling when Dean laughs.

 

 

It's still taking some getting used to, how easily Castiel gives affection. Dean relaxes, reassured knowing that Castiel will stop without question if he says no. Castiel noses at his cheek again, encouraging, and when Dean tips his head back the angel presses a gentle kiss to his throat.

Dean lets out something that's half moan, half sigh and glances around them, suddenly nervous. Several fauns are watching. The tree girl who gave him Castiel's shirt is smiling.

“They're watching us,” he hisses.

To his immense surprise, Castiel moans and buries his face in Dean's throat.

“You _like_ that!”

“Yes,” Castiel whispers. “But you don't.”

“Not really,” Dean mutters. He can admit he's something of an exhibitionist at times but this, with Cas, is different. Cas is special. Dean's possessive streak flares. No one gets to see them together.

Castiel straightens. “Then we'll go somewhere else.”

'Somewhere else' is into the woods, and plunging into darkness has never been so easy. There's just enough moonlight to do nothing more than make the shadows seem deeper, but Dean is completely at ease. He knows, somehow just _knows_ there is nothing waiting in the darkness to take them.

Castiel stops beneath an old oak tree.

Dean can barely see. He hears a soft rustle, like clothing, and then a pale hand extends out of the shadows. Dean takes it and doesn't resist when Castiel pulls him in.

_Is it strange that I find the idea of taking you in the dirt to be exciting?_

Dean's laugh cuts through the stillness. Here in the dark, alone, the thoughts come to his mind like an intimate whisper. He could almost fool himself into believing Cas spoke aloud.

_Who says you're gonna be the one doing the taking?_ Dean fires back. 

He finds Castiel's neck, thumbs at the base of his skull, and pulls him into a kiss. Light at first, just a brush of contact before Castiel moans and presses in harder. When Dean curls his hands around Castiel's hips, there is nothing but warm flesh beneath his fingers.

“ _Fuck.”_

The swear is soaked in wonder and joy, breathed right against Castiel's mouth because Dean doesn't want to pull away. He's so close he can feel the angel smile.

“Feelin' a little over dressed here, Cas.”

Something tugs at the hem of Dean's shirt -- Castiel's hands, he's sure, but it's too dark to see them. He just lifts his arms and lets Castiel tear the shirt over his head. It gets tossed away, and then without warning Castiel kicks Dean's feet out from under him. Dean yelps, his arms flailing, finding a shaky purchase on Castiel's bare shoulders that does him no good when Castiel is falling, too.

The angel grunts when his back connects with the earth, and then wheezes when Dean's weight crushes him.

“Damn it, Cas.” Dean lets his forehead drop into the curve of Castiel's neck. He smells of sweat and the spicy earth. “You good?”

“Yes,” Castiel says, somewhat winded.

“Couldn't you've used your mojo for that?”

“Yes.” Castiel presses his cheek to Dean's temple. “I wanted to know how it felt.”

Dean buries his face deeper in Castiel's neck, breathing in the scent. He supposes that reasoning makes sense to a being that hasn't been physical for most of its existence. With another deep breath, Dean gets his hands planted firmly in loose leaves and twigs and shoves himself up, just enough to look down at Cas. He can barely see facial features, but the angel's eyes are glowing a warm gold.

“Whoa,” he husks in awe. “Is that... the, uh. Other thing?”

Castiel nods. “The pagan part of me, yes.” The lower halves of their bodies are still plastered together, so Dean clearly feels the angel shudder. He clearly feels some other things, too. He grins and grinds his hips down hard just to hear Castiel gasp.

“I...” Castiel bites his lower lip, and Dean realizes with a start that he can see it because Castiel's eyes are glowing even brighter. Dean grinds down again in a slow circle and then lets up; the denim can't be too comfortable on Castiel's bare skin.

“You?” he prompts, teasing.

Castiel's fingers flex against Dean's shoulders, and Dean's jeans vanish.

“It's too easy,” Castiel says. “To accept that I am now something else.”

“You were always something else,” Dean says, and dives for Castiel's mouth.

He doesn't want to know what else will spill from either of them if he allows it.

Castiel moves beneath him, lifting his knees, tucking Dean more comfortably between them. Dean was only half hard, but the first slide of Castiel's cock against his own is more than enough to get him the rest of the way there. He rolls his hips forward, shuddering with the pleasure zinging down his spine. It's been a long time since he's had someone like this, slow and almost lazy, all the time in the world for the pleasure to build on itself until neither of them can contain it anymore.

Castiel's teeth sink into Dean's bottom lip at the same time he hikes up his legs, digging his heels into Dean's ass insistently. Dean huffs a laugh into Castiel's mouth. How did he ever assume he was in charge?

“Good?” Dean murmurs against Cas's lips. He nips at one in retaliation.

Castiel grunts and bucks his hips up. “Very.”

Dean lifts up a little, just enough to see that Castiel's eyes are glowing more fiercely -- and then finds himself looking _up_ as Castiel lets his legs fall from Dean's waist and flips them. Leaves and dirt grind into Dean's skin, sticking between his shoulder blades where he's begun to sweat. The angel grabs Dean's wrists and pins them above his head. Dean finds himself staring into gold.

He squirms under the angel's weight, sucking in a wide, wet mouthful of air when Castiel repositions himself and grinds down perfectly into his cock. Dean throws his head back, dry leaves crunching, and bucks up into Cas. He's never been manhandled, not like this. It stuns him to find just how much he likes it.

“Okay,” he breathes. “You win. You're taking.”

Castiel laughs at him, a low rumble, and leans down to press an open-mouthed kiss to Dean's exposed throat. The hunter releases a shaky sigh and lets himself go limp. A few memories of Hell flirt like blades with his conscious mind, but never quite surface. It feels _good_ to submit to Cas.

“ _Dean.”_ Castiel presses his face into Dean's throat. His hips stutter in their rhythm and then pick up speed, making Dean groan through clenched teeth. He lifts his knees and brackets Castiel's hips, mirroring the angel's earlier position, but doesn't try to make Castiel move any faster. 

When he tugs, Castiel releases his wrists, instead planting supple hands just above Dean's shoulders. Dean grabs a handful of Castiel's hair and yanks him up so he can mouth at his throat, sinking his teeth into the delicate space between neck and shoulder. He shivers when Castiel shouts. He slides his free hand down Castiel's back, but stops just shy of his target, not quite able to reach. Castiel seems to understand his intent and scoots up a little, just enough for Dean to get a firm handful of the angel's ass.

“Nice.” Dean squeezes once, hard, and then kneads more gently.

Castiel laughs again, another low, deep rumble. He tries to lower his head, but Dean tightens his grip in the angel's hair. The golden glow flares brighter still, and when Dean meets those eyes he can't see a single trace of blue.

“Cas?” he asks with a tendril of trepidation.

“I'm here,” Castiel says. “Dean, I'm... oh, _fuck...”_

Castiel bares his teeth, gritting them around a mangled groan. His hips lose their rhythm.

“Yeah, Cas, come on.” Dean gets a firmer grip on his ass and pulls, encouraging. He attacks the angel's throat again, sinking his teeth in and soothing the angry marks with gentle presses of lips and tongue. The angel lets out something like a sob when Dean tugs on his hair, so Dean does it again, harder, and at the same time he bites down hard on Castiel's shoulder.

The angel freezes. His hand flies up to the hand print he left on Dean's shoulder, clenching down with enough force to bruise, and Dean can't help his surprised yell when he _feels_ Castiel come, feels the slow driving burn of it searing through Castiel's body. It triggers his own orgasm, and Dean screams, pleasure overloading every nerve and synapse he's got. It builds, he gets louder, it all just keeps _going --_ until finally, it crashes.

They both collapse.

Dean doesn't realize he's kind of zoned out until Castiel's thoughts slip easily into his mind.

_Dean? Are you alright?_

_Mmm._ He grins and opens his eyes, doesn't bother wondering when he closed them.  _Yeah, I'm good._ Castiel is still on top of him, and Dean can feel the sticky mess of their come still warm between their bodies. 

“That was awesome,” he says aloud.

Castiel smiles. “For once, that word seems to be appropriate.”

~

They don't return to Bobby's until the sun is just beginning to peek over the horizon. Castiel clings selfishly to the hours before dawn, to Dean and the dark, and the safety it provides. As long as it's still night, as long as they don't emerge from the woods, Castiel doesn't have to deal with the reality that awaits him.

He has to forcefully hide certain thoughts from Dean, now that their connection is becoming stronger. He should have known the hand print he left on Dean's shoulder would help to open it even more. It is the physical proof that part of Castiel's soul is inside Dean, helping to heal what was left of Dean's own when Castiel pulled him out of the pit.

When he finally does fly them back to civilization, he lands just outside the downstairs bathroom. He cleaned them both with a thought, of course, but has a suspicion that Dean will want to shower anyway. He tells himself firmly that he has to leave. Instead, he wraps a hand around the back of Dean's neck and pulls him into kiss.

“Cas?” Dean asks, taking Castiel by the shoulders and pushing him back just enough to look the angel in the eye. “What's up?” He's studying Castiel's face in that searching way of his.

Castiel shakes his head. He curls his fingers through Dean's short hair, and then forces himself to release him.

“When I shifted before,” he says, “Pan was there. He seems to want to help me.”

The bolt in Dean's jaw jumps a little.

“I want to find him again. My powers are... beginning to concern me.” Castiel hesitates. “My control over them is still limited.”

Dean frowns. He's not buying it, but Castiel doesn't need him to. He just needs Dean to let him go.

“Pan... like, the Horned God?”

Castiel nods.

“Huh. Okay. Just... check in?”

“I promise.”

Dean's frown deepens, but he nods and leans in to press a soft, chaste kiss to Castiel's lips. “Okay. I'm gonna go find Sam.”

He turns away, and Castiel flies before he can no longer force himself to go.


	5. Chapter 5

_He was walking right into the building._

_Lucifer smiled, humming a pleased note under his breath. His true vessel was climbing the stairs now. Lucifer reached out to see if he was ready, and smiled all the wider when he felt the darkness writhing within him. Good. He was well fed._

_The devil chuckled and turned so he was facing the door. He leaned back against the wall, crossing his feet at the ankles and his arms over his chest as he waited. He knew this would happen. He knew Sam Winchester would give in. The thought of finally merging with his vessel made Lucifer shiver with excitement. Oh, the things he would show Sam, the one human he wanted to survive. He wasn't kidding when he told Sam he'd give him everything. Maybe he'd even give him Dean, just to show how pleased he was that Sam was approaching him like this, all powered up and alone._

_The door to this room fell off its aging hinges long ago, leaving only splinters behind. It left him an unobstructed view as Sam ascended the stairs, slow but determined, until his massive frame was filling the rotted doorway. He paused there, jaw clenched square and hands curled into tight fists._

“ _Sam,” Lucifer greeted warmly. “I told you it would happen in Detroit.”_

_Sam shrugged, seeming unimpressed. Lucifer rather liked that about him. “It's pretty easy to make predictions when you're moving all the pieces yourself,” Sam accused flatly. “You've been waiting here.”_

_Lucifer chuckled. “True. But I had no way of knowing for certain you'd come on this day.”_

“ _Oh, please. You're an angel,” Sam sneered. “You probably took a peek at the end of the book.”_

_The devil held his hands up helplessly. “What can I say? I use all the tricks at my disposal.”_

_Sam's jaw clenched again, set tight and hard for a moment before he filled his lungs and stepped fully into the room. His walk was stiff, his back perfectly straight for a few seconds -- before he appeared to force himself to relax, shoulders hunching forward, spine curving. Lucifer smiled to himself; Sam was probably posturing. Trying to make himself look bigger when grow as he might, he could never compare to the size of Lucifer's true self._

“ _I have some conditions,” he said._

_Lucifer nodded. “Of course, Sam. I told you I would give you everything.”_

“ _Right. I want to live, after this is all over. Dean and Cas too, and Bobby. And you bring our parents back. You promise me that, and... and I'll say yes.”_

“ _Very well,” Lucifer said easily. He could let a measly few humans live in his paradise for a while. Their lifespans were nothing compared to the eternity he had planned. “I promise you, Sam, that you will all live and I will bring your parents back.”_

_Sam sucked in a sharp breath, nodding once, more to himself than Lucifer. His fists clenched one more time, and finally fell loose at his sides. “Okay,” he breathed. “Okay.”_

_He squared his shoulders and looked Lucifer dead in the eye._

“ _Yes.”_

_The moment the required permissive left Sam's lips, Lucifer abandoned his temporary vessel. He let himself expand in the middle space for a moment, delighting in stretching his wings, before he surged gleefully into his true vessel._

_But something was wrong._

~

Sam finds the note from Castiel on the coffee table. It's early, maybe six or seven in the morning, but he can't sleep. The dark, the quiet, it's become too distressing. Too much time alone to think. He has a mug of hot coffee and is in the process of flipping on every light he can find when he spots the note.

 

_Sam. Dean and I “went out.” We're fine. Don't worry. -- Cas._

 

Sam laughs and lets the paper fall back onto the coffee table. He can almost see Castiel literally using air-quotes around the term “went out.” He takes a sip of coffee, trying to ignore the way it burns his tongue. Burning is something he'll have to get used to, after all. If it's possible to get used to something like that.

Sam shudders. He rushes into the kitchen and pours the coffee into the sink.

“Heya, Sam.”

Sam jumps and whirls around, almost knocking his mug onto the floor. Dean smirks at the display as he grabs his own mug. His hair is damp. Sam wonders how long he's been back, and what he was doing that he needed to shower so early -- if it's what he thinks it was, he's very glad Castiel took Dean somewhere else for it. He'll have to remember to thank the angel.

If he's around that long.

“I'm going to say yes to Lucifer.”

He _really_ needs to stop blurting it out like that. Cas could handle it, but Dean --

“You're gonna fucking _WHAT?!”_

Sam winces, tempted for about half a second to actually stuff his fingers in his ears. “Look, it's our best shot!”

“No.” Dean cuts a hand through the air at waist level; nope, no way, he is _done_ with this shit.

Sam sighs, and settles in against the counter.

“No, Sammy,” Dean says simply. “There's always another way.”

The nickname slices right through all the walls Sam erected for hours last night after his failed attempt at sleep, sending them crashing to the ground in pieces. God, how he hated that name as a kid, even more after Stanford. It reminded him of everything he tried so hard to escape. And then, somehow, it became a tie between him and Dean. It was _Dean's_ name for him. No one else's. It was special, _is_ special. 

“And what if there's not?” He's got to be aggressive because if he's not, he'll cave. He'll let Dean talk him out of it. Sam can _not_ let that happen. “If we can find anything before we get Death's ring, I'm all ears, Dean -- I don't want to do this. But if it means,” and his tone becomes kinder, “that we can save the world?”

Dean flinches when he hears that. His eyes find Sam's, hard and exhausted, the green of them standing out against the dark half-moons beneath them. He looks away from their mutual gaze just as fast, fingers clenching, gripping the counter hard enough to turn his knuckles white.

“Dean,” Sam says, low and sharp. “You can't save me at the expense of the world. You _can't.”_

Dean closes his eyes. Sam prays he doesn't cry, because he couldn't stand that. It'd make him want to break down, like it always does, and give Dean whatever he wants just to make him smile again.

“I know,” Dean whispers, tight and strangled. “Goddamnit, Sam. I know.”

His shoulders slump just a fraction.

On one hand, Sam's relieved. He really thought he was going to have to fight his brother harder. On the other hand, all the barriers he put up to keep himself from feeling this collapse were just torn down. He sags against the counter, jaw dropping slack as the horror of the situation really hits him.

He's going to Hell.

To save the world, he's going to lock himself in the damn cage with  _Satan._

Sam feels himself start to shake, hauls in a desperate breath -- and suddenly, there's a hand on his shoulder, clamping down so hard it hurts. Sam grabs for it, covers it with his own, gripping just as hard.

They stand like that for what feels like hours, staring at nothing and clinging tight.

“I'm gonna keep looking,” Dean hisses, each word its own cut through the silence. “You hear me, Sam? I'm gonna keep looking right to the fucking end, and if there's any way --”

Sam cuts him off. “Thanks,” he says with a curt nod. “But you gotta promise not to come in after me. It might let everything loose again. Just... go find a quiet corner somewhere, you and Cas. Make a home.”

Dean blinks and his head snaps around, eyes wide when they connect with Sam's. “You know?”

Sam snorts like _dude, come on_. “I've known since I first saw you guys looking at each other. I don't think you loved each other yet --” Dean snorts and looks away, though he doesn't remove his hand. Sam just rolls his eyes and presses on. “-- but I know you do now, okay? You don't have to say it. Just like you never have to say you love me, I _know._ And Cas does, too.”

“Shut up,” Dean growls, but squeezes his hand tighter.

That's all the confirmation Sam needs.

“You know he likes to dance?”

“Yeah?” Sam can't even describe how happy he is to change the subject for just a little while.

“Yeah.” Dean lets go of Sam's shoulder and leans on the counter beside him. “He took me to this weird pagan bonfire. Not the kind we hunt, obviously, they were all Mister Tumnus or something.” Dean tips his head, his eyes glazing in memory. A tiny grin quirks his lips.

Sam raises his eyebrows, curious.

“The tree girls were kinda hot,” Dean says, earning a snort and a shake of Sam's head. “And Cas... just kinda let loose. Took off everything but his pants and went around the fire. Nothing too crazy, just... sorta...” Dean trails off with a chuckle, his eyes darting bashfully to the floor. Sam stares. He didn't know the hedonist was _capable_ of feeling bashful.

Well. That's not true. It's rare, but he's seen it -- when Dean truly likes someone.

“You probably don't wanna hear this,” Dean says after a moment, even though he's grinning at the floor like an idiot and it's making Sam smile, too.

“Not if it's headed where I think it is,” Sam says lightly, or at least, it's meant to be light. He thinks it might come out a little choked.

Dean opens his mouth to answer, but Bobby chooses that moment to roll in from the office. Sam sees anger spark in his brother's eyes before Bobby even has a chance to say hello.

“So did _you_ know about this crazy 'yes' plan?”

Bobby pauses. Then he nods, once, and opens the fridge.

“Well, thanks for keeping me in the loop!” Dean throws his hands in the air and turns away, but he takes maybe two steps before he turns and goes right back to Sam's side. “We got anything on the last ring?” he asks, quick and sharp, and Sam knows he needs the distraction because Sam needs it, too.

“ _I_ have something!”

Sam lunges up off the counter, hand automatically going for the gun he doesn't even have on him -- before he reins it in, willing his body to stand down.

Dean on the other hand turns and tosses an easy nod at the archangel now standing, with arms crossed and teeth bared in a somewhat disconcerting grin, right in the middle of the kitchen.

“Great, what've you got?” Dean asks him.

“Two things!” Gabriel says brightly. “One, I come bearing gifts.” He turns towards Bobby, who has his head tipped back to keep a wary eye on the trickster. “Sorry this took me so long. Healing isn't exactly in my résumé these days, so it took a while to build up the energy.”

“The hell you talkin' about?” Bobby grunts, then tries to jerk back in surprise when Gabriel reaches out and taps two fingers against his forehead.

Dean leans back to Sam and mutters, “What's that saying? 'Beware Greeks bearing gifts'?”

Sam snorts, surprised and amused, and gives Dean a tight nod.

“Gee, thanks,” Bobby drawls. Sam can practically see the sarcasm dripping into the floor. “And that was supposed to help how?”

“Stand up,” Gabriel says, and turns away. “So, guys! I have -- drumroll, please --”

“Wait a minute!” Dean takes a few steps forward, peering around Gabriel to a shocked Bobby. “Can you really...?”

Slowly, Bobby curls his fingers around the armrests. “Only one way to find out,” he says. He inhales, slow and bolstering, and lifts one foot down onto the floor. The other follows. Bobby stares down at his own feet for a few seconds before he just surges up out of the chair.

He's standing. Shit, he's... he's fixed. Sam's eyes snap to Gabriel's face, and for just a second he sees something soft there, something purely angelic.

“Thanks,” Bobby breathes. Then he turns, and kicks the chair away out into the office. It skitters across the floor. They hear it skid to a crash.

“Sure,” Gabriel says, shrugging.

“You were sayin' something about Death?” Bobby asks, all gruff business. Like nothing has changed.

Sam has always admired that quality.

“Yes!” Gabriel claps his hands together. “I have a location! He's parked in a pizza place in Chicago.”

“Mmm _mmm_ ,” Dean groans. “Deep dish.”

“Yeah, well, Death is getting ready to wipe it off the map. _And_ start a chain of disasters that will kill about three million people. Pretty sure only a handful of them are real dicks, so I'm not okay with this.”

Sam has to turn away. Gabriel _killed_ Dean, over and over and over, forced Sam to watch and then live without his brother for months just to prove a point. He put them through that series of humiliating shows and ads in screwy TV land.

And yet...

Sam doesn't condone killing without a really good cause, but Gabriel's victims before were really awful people. And he seems genuinely pissed now that he's decided to bat for the good guys.

Sam doesn't like it. Not one bit. But at this point, he has to admit he's willing to compromise.

“So how do we get his ring before he goes nuclear?” Dean asks, and Sam forces himself back to the conversation.

“Magic scythe!” Gabriel produces an old, rusty scythe from behind his back. “It used to be Death's. Don't know if he discarded it, or if he got scythe-jacked, but it tends to circulate all over the supernatural world. I got it from, what was it – Crowley. I think you've met?”

Sam and Dean groan as one. They haven't seen Crowley since he handed over the Colt, and Sam would like it to stay that way.

“Eh, the guy's not so bad,” Gabriel says with a dismissive wave of his hand. “One of the more tolerable demons out there. Not a bad idea to have him tucked in your back pocket.

“So! You don't have to kill Death -- which, actually, I don't know if that's possible. You just gotta get that ring off of him. This should help.”

He hands the scythe straight to Dean. When Sam makes a sound of protest, Gabriel casts him a withering glare.

“You're not going in there, Samwise,” he says. “You're Lucifer's true vessel. Death might just wipe you off the map, and when I say map? I mean of the universe. We'd never find your _dust._ He won't be as concerned with Dean being Michael's, since Michael isn't the one trying to house-train him. _You_ are gonna stay right here.”

Sam opens his mouth to protest, no way is he letting _Dean_ go alone with Gabriel _anywhere_ , but he's barely even gotten out the “n” before they vanish.

~

“Sam's gonna be pissed.”

Gabriel sighs, but Dean just keeps right on going. “No, he's gonna be _pissed_. Sam gets piss _y_ all the time, but I'm talkin' Krakatoa here. Just warning you.”

They're standing right outside a restaurant, have been for the last three minutes, but Dean's stalling. He figures he's earned a few minutes of stalling; he's about to go face _Death._

“Why don't you hate me, Dean?” Gabriel asks. His tone is light, but his eyes are trained with such intensity on Dean's face that the hunter has to look away.

“I dunno,” Dean says to the parking lot with a shrug. “I probably would if I could remember what you did to me down in Broward. Probably should, anyway; just 'cause Sammy does. But I figure by that point you were doing what you thought you had to do.”

He shifts. “It's not like Sam and I haven't done dumb shit because we thought we had to.”

They fall silent for a moment. Gabriel turns to look at the sign over the pizzeria, swinging gently back and forth as the wind starts to pick up.

“Cas says you were there when we took down Pestilence,” Dean says. He grips the scythe tighter but he doesn't make a move to go inside.

If he gets the final ring, then they're out of options.

If they're out of options, Sam will have to jump.

“Yeah.” Gabriel shrugs one shoulder. “I was keeping an eye on him. New tricksters shouldn't interact with others of their kind, at first. We influence them too much.”

Dean grunts. He's not really surprised that's what Gabriel meant for Cas to be, even if it's not at all what Cas has become. “Why'd you care? I mean, you didn't have to give him a boost, or whatever it was you were trying to do.”

Gabriel shrugs again. The sign is swinging more insistently now, squealing on its hinges. “There aren't a lot of rebellious angels. Particularly ones that didn't end up in the pit. Ones that rebelled for the right reasons.”

Dean snorts. “Are you trying to say _you_ rebelled for the right reasons? Dude. Did you even rebel?”

“I _tried,_ ” Gabriel mutters petulantly. His eyes dart to Dean's and they share a quick, surprised laugh. “Okay, so mostly I tattled on my big brother and then went and hid like a scared little kid.” He rolls his eyes. “Shut up. The point is, I felt connected to Cas. I watched him for a while and just couldn't stand how helpless he felt.”

He gives Dean a stink eye. “All right, Care Bear?”

Dean aches with how nervous he is. “God,” he says in a rush, “I never thought I'd want to talk about anything remotely like _feelings_ over going to kill something.” Gabriel guffaws.

The pizza sign screeches and snaps, crashing to the sidewalk just feet away. A few people along the sidewalk yelp in surprise, clutching their coats and hats more tightly, ducking down against the wind.

“Guess I better do this,” Dean says, clutching the scythe.

Gabriel nods. “I'll hover. Don't want Sam thinking I got you killed.”

“Thanks,” Dean chuckles. He knocks his arm against Gabriel's and squares his shoulders before fighting through the increasing wind to the door.

The pizzeria is still, nearly silent but for the now-distant howl of the wind, the dull beat of the rain as it begins pelting down against the roof. Dean shivers, almost wraps his coat around himself even though he knows it isn't cold. Not really. He grips the scythe's handle more tightly, knuckles turning white.

It begins to burn in his grasp. Not too hot at first, but the pain grows, flares into something bright and share. Dean grits his teeth and lets the weapon fall to the floor. Wincing at the clatter, he glances to Death's still form.

“Thank you for returning that,” Death's cool, level voice says quietly. The scythe vanishes, and reappears beside his cup of soda.

This is definitely going on Dean's top ten list of weirdest shit he's ever done.

“Join me, Dean,” Death continues. Calm, polite. If Dean wasn't so scared he can barely think straight, he'd probably find that voice soothing. “The pizza is delicious.”

Stiffly, Dean approaches the table. Death doesn't look up from the bite of pizza he's sliding off his fork, chewing slow and deliberate. Dean pulls out a chair and sinks into it, grateful that he's no longer standing on his shaky legs. The pizza smells amazing, looks even better, but Dean can't take his eyes off the thin, pale man sitting just feet away.

Death.

 _Fuck._ Dean tries to suck in a breath through his closing throat and manages something that wheezes.

“It took you long enough to find me,” Death says. He's using a fork and a knife to eat his pizza, something Dean would normally find pretentious. Now it's just freaking him out.

“I've been wanting to talk to you.”

Dean pulls in another breath and manages a shaky half-smile. “Gotta say, I have mixed feelings about that.” He swallows, then lets the twisted attempt at bravado slide off his face because fuck it, he's facing _Death,_ who the hell is he kidding? “S-so... is this the part where you, um...” He has to cough here, a desperate attempt to open his throat around the clutch of fear. “Where you kill me?”

Death lifts his head in one smooth, steady motion. His gaze is calm, collected, nothing like Dean's used to facing. As a hunter Dean can handle rage and hatred, and the explosive energy of pure violence, but this? There's no precedence for this.

“You have an inflated sense of your own importance,” Death says. It should be condescending but it's not, not quite. It's an observation tinged with amusement, like a very old man watching a child make a mistake. “To a thing like me, a thing like you...” Death pauses. He lifts the soda and takes a drink, sets it down and then says, “Well, think if a bacterium sat at your table and started to get snarky.”

Dean has never felt so small in his _life._

“This is one little planet,” Death says. He's looking right at Dean now, and Dean really, really wishes he would stop that. “One tiny solar system, in a galaxy that's barely out of its diapers. I'm old, Dean. Very old. So, I invite you to contemplate how insignificant I find you.”

If Death's tone came across as arrogant, or condescending, or even flippant, Dean would know how to handle it. He could deal. But it doesn't. He just sounds so damn calm, like he's explaining something a little boring and not particularly important. It's both somewhat reassuring, and downright insulting.

Death leans forward and picks up the pizza server, sliding a thick slice onto the plate sitting in front of Dean.

“Eat,” he says, and sits back again.

Dean stares at the pizza. Through it. He's not sure he can swallow, let alone actually eat anything. He picks up his fork anyway, nerves making him copy the Horseman because he doesn't want to offend the guy. He cuts off a small bite and lifts it to his mouth. It takes him a moment, a deep breath and briefly closed eyes, before he can part his lips and actually set the bite inside, fear roiling in his stomach. He's distantly aware of the fact that the pizza is good, _really_ good. He even makes a hysterical mental note to bring Sam and Cas here later and then remembers Sam won't be there, and almost drops his fork.

“Good,” Death says. “Isn't it?”

Dean manages to incline his head. There's thunder outside now, and every few seconds Dean sees flashes of lightening reflecting off the windows at the opposite end of the pizzeria. He wonders if Gabriel is still sitting out there in the storm.

“Gotta ask,” Dean says after a moment, because the silence is worse, so much worse on his nerves. “How old are you?”

“As old as God,” he says easily. “Maybe older. Neither of us can remember anymore.”

Dean manages to swallow. “This is way above my pay grade,” he jokes, voice thin and soft, hollow chuckle just a little desperate.

Dean gives Dean a look that's almost, _almost_ fond. “Just a bit.”

“So why am I still breathing?” Dean blurts. “What... what do you want?”

“The leash around my neck, off,” Death says instantly.

“Right,” Dean says, remembering Gabriel mentioning Lucifer had Death chained down. “Lucifer's got you... yeah. And you think I can unbind you?”

Death sighs. “There's your ridiculous bravado again. Of course you can't. But you can help me take the bullets out of Lucifer's gun.”

Death sets down his fork and knife and leans forward, raising his right hand so that his ring is facing Dean. “I understand you want this.”

Dean glances at it. His eyes dart down to the scythe, return to Death's gaze. “Yeah.”

“I'm inclined to give it to you,” Death says, easy.

Like anything is ever easy. “What about Chicago?”

Thunder rolls, much closer than before, and a flash of lightening paints bright cracks in Death's dark gaze. He shrugs. “I suppose it can stay. I like the pizza.”

He then removes his ring, holding it lightly between two fingers as he tilts it in Dean's direction. Not quite offering, not yet. Dean waits without breathing for whatever is coming next.

“There are conditions,” Death says. “You have to do whatever it takes to put Lucifer in his cell.”

“Of course,” Dean answers, gulping air because yeah, that's sort of obvious, but he's barely got the words out when Death says, “ _Whatever_ it takes,” again.

“That's the plan,” Dean assures him.

Death meets his eyes and holds them. Hard. “Lucifer's vessel. That is the only thing that can stop him.”

“Okay,” Dean agrees, because he's already been down this road, already knows he's gonna lose Sam -- damn it, _again_ \--and he doesn't need it rubbed in his face just yet. “Okay.”

He holds out his hand, and Death drops the ring into it.

“Would you like the instruction manual?” Death asks.

Dean leans forward and listens carefully as Death tells him what he needs to open the door; the rings all bound together, just a few words, a few motions and the will. Dean commits it all to memory even as the very thought makes him sick.

And then Death disappears, the storm along with him.

When Dean stumbles outside on unsteady legs he finds a wet, bedraggled Gabriel sitting on the edge of the sidewalk, glaring up at the sky.

“Couldn't you dry yourself off or somethin'?” Dean asks, slipping the ring into his pocket.

Gabriel blinks and he's dry. “But he didn't have to make it rain at all.”

Dean snorts, sinking down onto the sidewalk beside Gabriel. “I know how to open the cage now,” he says in a daze.

“Great,” Gabriel deadpans. He sighs. “Think we should bring Sam one of those pizzas for his last meal?”

Dean punches him. Right on the cheekbone, the impact cracking across his knuckles and sending Gabriel lurching sideways. That surprises Dean. He remembers when he hit Cas; it was like punching a marble statue that gave just enough to keep Dean's bones from breaking. Before Castiel learned to soften himself, before he started leaking the last shreds of his grace.

“Ow!” Gabriel growls. He pushes himself upright and presses an open palm to his cheek.

“Don't say that shit,” Dean mutters.

“Yeah,” Gabriel agrees. Another sigh. “You're lucky I'm on your side. I've turned people into toads for much less.” He lets his hand fall.

“Of course,” he drawls, quirking his lips in an odd smirk that's pure trickster, “you have your Prince Charming to kiss you human again. So that wouldn't do the trick.”

“ _Oh my god,_ ” Dean groans. “Just shut up and take us back to Bobby's.”

Gabriel chuckles. He sets a hand on Dean's shoulder, Dean hears the telltale rustle of wings and they're sitting on the couch in the living room, side-by-side. Dean immediately heads to the desk in Bobby's office where they've been stashing the other rings. When he puts them all on the desk, they're drawn to each other like magnets, snapping together into one complete amulet. Dean lifts it, just stares at it. Contemplates throwing it into an ocean. 

And then slides it into his pocket.

“Dean?”

Sam comes out of the kitchen, all questioning eyebrows. Dean just nods and watches his brother absorb the implications.

“You heard from Cas?” he asks, mostly to distract himself, but partly because it's been hours and Cas hasn't checked in. Though that isn't exactly unusual for the angel, even when he promises he will.

“Nope,” Sam says. “Where'd he go after he dropped you off?”

“He said he was gonna look for Pan. Wanted to talk to him about his powers,” Dean says. “But I dunno. He felt... off.”

“Can you feel him from here?”

“Maybe. I'm still kinda new at this.”

Dean closes his eyes and imagines he's just reaching out to Cas. _Easy, Winchester. Don't think too hard._ But he can't feel anything, not like he does when Cas is close. He shakes his head and opens his eyes, and now Gabriel is in the room, frowning.

“I'll go check on him,” he says, and vanishes.

The brothers stare at the place Gabriel was seconds ago.

Sam says, “Bobby went for a walk,” and laughs. “He hasn't stopped moving since you guys left.”

His gaze darkens, his jaw tightening. “I swear I'm going to kill Gabriel when he gets back.”

“Hey, he had a pretty good reason to not take you. But you can apparently hit him without breaking your knuckles, so there's that.” Dean shrugs. Doesn't know what else to do.

And then Gabriel is back in the room, eyes wide and panicked. He grabs both Dean and Sam's arms. Next thing Dean knows there's that lurch in his stomach, and he's standing in a burnt-out building. The windows are blown out, only the ragged edges of full planes of glass remaining, and when Dean looks out one of them he can see a city far below them.

“Gabe?” he asks, but the archangel just shakes his head and points.

There's a figure lying on the floor, huge despite the fact that he's curled in on himself. A low, tight groan escapes him and Dean freezes, eyes flying wide before they whip to the side, to Sam -- who's standing right there beside him, looking confused -- but Dean knows that sound. That's Sam when he's in pain.

Gabriel runs past them, landing on his knees and skidding up to the hunched figure. He puts a hand on the person's back and winces, and Dean's eyes go wide in shock.

“It's Cas,” he breathes. He reaches out to be sure and Castiel reaches back desperately, his soul clinging to Dean's like it's literally a lifeline. “Sam,” he says wildly, “it's Cas!”

“What?” Sam casts a dubious look Dean's way. “He... really?” Dean's not backing down, and Sam believes him. “What... how do we help him?”

“I don't know!” Gabriel is frantic. There's not a shred of the trickster behind his eyes right now, and it's kinda freaking Dean out. “He has _Lucifer_ in there!”

No time to think; Dean reaches out again, feeling out Castiel's grace and yup, there it is, another presence inside. Castiel's trying his best to trap Lucifer, to keep him contained. Dean feels twin surges of gratefulness and agony because damn it, he's so fucking happy Sam isn't going to have to jump in the pit, but that doesn't mean he wants Castiel to take his place, not when Dean...

Shoving his hand into his pocket, Dean grabs hold of the rings and shoves them against Sam's chest. Sam takes them, shakes his head and opens his mouth to ask but Dean starts talking before he can say a word, tells him what to say, how to open the door. Sam just nods once, asks “When?” and Dean says “Now.” Then he lunges forward.

Gabriel scrambles back without question. Dean drops to his knees and pulls the body that looks just like Sam into his lap. He grabs Castiel's shoulders and leans down, far as he can, and whispers three words very softly. They aren't meant for anyone else.

Sam's visage melts away. Castiel's eyes briefly snap open as he gasps Dean's name, before letting out a scream that shatters what little glass is left in the windows.

~

Finding Lucifer wasn't difficult.

Difficulty lay with the disguise. Shifting into Sam turned out to be surprisingly easy, as simple as shifting into an animal, and Castiel had known the hunter long enough that he was confident he could project Sam's personality. The hard part was shrouding his grace, and his new power. He had to make it look like Sam had been drinking demon blood, and lots of it, in preparation for Lucifer.

In the end, the trick was essentially to trick himself. He shifted, and twisted the look of his grace and pagan abilities until they writhed like a demon's true form. He buried himself in the dark and the heat and the agony of an imagined tortured soul until he'd convinced himself that he was being possessed. The trick was so thorough that he had to fight to remember his purpose. There had been a moment where he nearly drowned in his own disguise, and the only thing that brought him back was a flare of heat against his chest. The amulet was still warm when he checked. It was both confusing and comforting, but he chose to focus on the latter.

He tucked the amulet beneath his shirt and made himself look for Lucifer.

The devil wasn't trying to hide. The day he'd promised Sam would come was here, so Lucifer was letting his grace blaze clearly, a beacon for his vessel to follow. He'd settled in Detroit, just like he'd promised.

Castiel landed several miles from the abandoned building Lucifer had chosen. He even went so far as to steal a car and drive the rest of the way, to make it look like Sam really had come alone. Lucifer was waiting at the very top, and that gave Castiel time. He took each step slowly, sinking into his role, deeper and deeper until he almost forgot himself again.

He was Sam Winchester. He was Lucifer's vessel, and he was the only one that could do this.

By the time the word “yes” slipped off his tongue, Castiel could barely remember what his true goal was. And then Lucifer's grace was inside him, overwhelming in its power, and Castiel had less than a second to grab onto the devil before he could realize his mistake and leave.

He has no idea how long they've been fighting within this body. He only knows that he's losing. After centuries in the pit, Lucifer's grace has only grown stronger, and he is slowly wearing Castiel down.

The touch of Dean's soul is a shock. Castiel reaches back without thought, no time to think; if they're here already, he cannot afford to lose. Clinging desperately to Dean's strength, Castiel renews his efforts. He won't let Lucifer have them, he _won't._ He tries again to take in Lucifer's power, to hold it even just for a moment, but Lucifer keeps ripping himself away. He knows what Castiel is trying to do. He knows Castiel is too weak.

Dean's soul surges closer, too close, like it's trying to climb out of Dean's body and into Castiel's. The angel never hears the words, but he _feels_ what Dean is pouring into him and he takes it, all of it. He grips that love as tightly to his soul as he can -- and uses Dean's strength to tear out his grace.

It's a kind of pain that can't be explained. It echoes in his physical form, but the rest is an entirely spiritual agony, so intense that even Lucifer pauses in disbelief, just for a second, at what Castiel has done.

Then he's fighting twice as hard, trying to claw his way out of Castiel's trap. The angel wants to curl into a corner somewhere to shake through his pain, but instead he takes the glow of his grace and traps Lucifer's inside it. When he rips them both free of his body, the pain tears through him again, and he wonders briefly if this was how Anna felt when she fell.

“Cas?” Dean is leaning over him, panting, hands clenched tight into Castiel's shirt like he felt the pain too. Maybe he did. His soul is still so close. The angel feels a surge of gratitude that it was his soul and not his grace that was required to resurrect Dean.

“I've got him,” Castiel whispers hoarsely, and holds up his hands. Both graces are trapped there between his palms, pulsing with the need to escape the temporary binding Castiel has created with his pagan magic. “We need to... I can't hold him...”

“Behind you. The door's open.”

Dean helps Castiel sit up and turn. The rings have been activated along the back wall. The portal is a sucking pit of black, and Castiel wishes briefly that he didn't have to do this. That there was a way to show Lucifer why humanity is worth saving.

But then he looks at Sam, wide wet gaze staring at him in disbelief, at Gabriel who looks stunned, at Dean who doesn't have to live without any of them -- and he hurls Lucifer into the cage.

Energy sparks within the nebulous ball of light. Lucifer, trying a last-ditch effort to keep himself from Hell. But the pull of the portal is too strong. It warps the light, sucks it in, and with a pop like pressure relieving itself the entire swirling black morass disappears.

It's over.

Castiel slumps against Dean, letting Gabriel and Sam take care of the rings. He's vaguely aware of the fact that he's shaking, of Dean's arms wrapped tight around his shoulders. Dean is murmuring low, half-formed words into his ear. In a moment they move, Dean slipping an arm under Castiel's knees and lifting him up against his chest. There's an awkward moment where Castiel thinks he's probably supposed to be moving, helping somehow, but he's limp and drained, curled against the golden pagan power inside as he tries to ignore the gaping hole where his grace should be.

Eventually, when Castiel drags himself back into something resembling awareness, he finds that he's lying on Bobby's couch. Sam and Bobby are nowhere to be found. Castiel wonders briefly how much time has passed since they returned home.

But most importantly, he sees Dean is sitting on the coffee table, head bowed with hands in his lap. For a moment Castiel thinks he's praying, but then he realizes Dean has fallen asleep like that.

“You okay, little bro?”

Castiel lifts his head. Gabriel is standing at the end of the couch by his feet. There's nothing but the angel staring at him, and for the first time that bothers Castiel.

“Where's Loki?” he asks. Gabriel laughs, and subtly shifts. He's still Gabriel, but he's also something else, something far less angelic that Castiel can relate to. Now, more than ever.

“What am I?” Castiel asks.

“Some kind of deity,” his brother answers. “Beyond that? No clue. You broke all the rules, kiddo. Guess now you're an official Winchester.”

Dean mutters something low and unintelligible, and jerks awake. He breathes out Castiel's name when he sees he's awake, and lurches off the table. He sinks down on the edge of the couch, pressing in warm and alive against Castiel's side.

“Go get Sam!” he barks, waving a hand at Gabriel without looking at him.

“Not your messenger boy,” Gabriel snarks, but he goes anyway.

Dean is running his eyes all over Castiel. “You ripped your grace out, didn't you?” he says, almost accusing. He looks caught somewhere between ecstatic and miserable.

“I wasn't sure if it would work,” Castiel says with a small nod. “I just didn't want Sam to die, or for you to live without us.”

There's a watery smile somewhere in Dean's expression, splashed all throughout.

“I'm sorry your grace is gone, but... I'm just...”

Castiel nods, smiling back, and Dean has just enough time to bend down and kiss him hard before the other three all come spilling back into the room, crowding around the couch.

Sam nearly crushes Castiel in a hug and demands to know just _when_ Castiel thought up his “fucking crazy plan”. Bobby pats him on the shoulder and tells him he did good. Everyone is talking at once, and it takes Castiel a while to tell them that he started thinking up ways to prevent Sam from jumping almost as soon as he found out that Sam was planning to jump.

“You're my friend, Sam. I didn't want you to die,” Castiel says to Sam's shocked expression. He gets another bone-crushing hug, and Dean yanks him over as soon as Sam releases him.

Dean kisses him, all at once hard and tender --

\-- before seeming to remember there are other people in the room. Gabriel is leering, Bobby rolling his eyes. Dean curses them all and releases Castiel, crossing his arms, staring sullenly down at the coffee table.

“How were you planning on holding him long enough to get back to us?” Sam asks. “What if you hadn't been able to, and he...?”

“It was worth the risk,” Castiel says. “Also, I knew Gabriel was watching me, that he would find you and bring you to me. I didn't expect him to bring you as quickly as he did.”

“Gee, thanks for consulting me,” Gabriel says dryly. But a little giggle ripples through him. “Gotta say, bro,” he says, shaking his head in admiration, “that was one hell of a trick.”

Dean frowns. He slides a hand over Castiel's, and Castiel turns it so they can lace their fingers together. “Is he... you know. Like _you_ now?”

Gabriel smirks. “The trickster Castiel,” he says like a grandstand announcer. “It's got a pretty nice ring, doesn't it? But no. He's... something new.”

“I'm still just me,” Castiel mutters, irritated. He doesn't like being talked about like he isn't in the room.

Dean tilts his head and leans in, bumping his forehead against Castiel's temple. The affectionate gesture might have surprised Castiel at one point, but he's learned that Dean is far more comfortable with physical affection than he is with verbal.

“I'm glad you're still you,” Dean says, very quietly, and then he coughs and leans back but doesn't let go of Castiel's hand.

Everyone else leaves the room after that, Bobby muttering something about “getting a room” as he walks out, Gabriel just vanishing. Sam winks at Dean before snatching up his accoutrements and taking off in Dean's car. Dean doesn't seem too happy about that until he realizes they have the living room to themselves now.

“How you doin'?” Dean asks, completely serious.

“I'm all right,” Castiel assures him. “I feel... hollow. There's an ache where my grace should be, but it will fade.” At least, he hopes it will.

Dean just nods. He squeezes Castiel's hand once and then lets go, giving space without moving away. “'s like a missing limb, I bet.”

“Yes, very much like that,” Castiel agrees. “The other power helps, but it's too new to be as much a comfort as my grace.”

Dean nods again, once. Then he surges to his feet and holds out his hand to Castiel. The ex-angel tips his head, curious.

“Look, I suck at words, okay?” Dean says uncomfortably. Then he grins and gives Castiel a wink. “But I'm really good at more... tactile stuff.”

“Yes,” Castiel agrees. He takes Dean's hand and lets the hunter haul him to his feet, sways into Dean's strength, because he needs it right now.

“And, look, uh.” Dean glances away, tugs at Castiel's hand and starts leading him upstairs. “God, don't ever tell Sam I said this, but if you just want to, you know... cuddle, or something. That's cool. Whatever you want.”

His foot is on the first step when Castiel stops him with a gentle tug. Dean turns, and Castiel leans up on his toes to plant a solid kiss against his hunter's lips.

“I love you,” he says.

Dean grins and flushes and looks away all at once, shifting on his feet like he's bashful.

“You too,” he mumbles.

Castiel laughs. He lets the good humor try to fill the space where his grace used to be, and leans up for another kiss.


	6. Chapter 6

~

**Epilogue**

~

 

There are days when Castiel can't breathe.

There are days when he wakes up screaming, clawing his way back to physical awareness with echoes of pain lashing through his body. He remembers the first time he really slept -- or rather, woke -- because he was screaming in his sleep and Dean was terrified that something was wrong. He remembers firm hands on his shoulders shaking him hard, remembers assuring Dean that it was just the memory of his grace being torn away: _I'm fine now, go back to sleep._

Those are the days he wakes like he's trying to be an angel again, his screams an attempt to call out with a true voice he no longer possesses. Those are the days he curls into Dean's chest and sobs, deep uncontrollable gasps that get stuck in his throat and make his nose run because he can't stand the emptiness left by his grace. Or sometimes, on other days, he doesn't cry -- but rather lies staring sightlessly at the ceiling, unable to claw his way out of the void. He'll stay like that for hours. He can't even answer Dean's distressed calls. Dean particularly hates those days, not only because Castiel is hurting but also because he doesn't know what to do. Dean can handle Castiel when he cries, or rages; Dean knows how to react. He knows to hold Castiel as tightly as he can, or to stand back and let Castiel scream his frustration at the walls. But Castiel in a catatonic state baffles him.

“I think it's a kind of PTSD,” Dean said once, maybe a week after, when Castiel's fits were at their worst. It made Castiel remember his conversation with Sam the day he woke up with his new power. “Sometimes you feel okay, great even, and then sometimes you're so overwhelmed you can't control what you feel.” His eyes softened. “Guess we're not so different now.”

Before, Castiel knew there were “good days” and “bad days” for Dean, but he didn't _understand_ until he experienced it in his own way. Dean doesn't say “I love you,” to Sam when he wants to. He scoffs at things that actually make him happy. It's difficult for him to accept things that mean his life is good. There are even days when he panics before sex, when he can't accept that Castiel really wants him, and now Castiel understands. He represses where Castiel reacts.

Slowly, like Castiel, he's getting better.

And today is a good day.

Today, Castiel woke up from a dream he can't remember, but he knows it was soft and colorful. Everyone he loves was there. Dean was already awake, sitting cross-legged on his side of the bed in nothing but his boxers and the amulet Castiel had finally returned to him. He was cupping a mug of coffee in both hands and watching Castiel. The ex-angel chuckled and called Dean a creeper, like Dean had called him so many times, and the hunter grinned and playfully threatened to dump his coffee on Castiel's head.

Today, Castiel lazily struggled his way into a sitting position and found another mug of coffee on the table beside the bed, nearly white with cream and full of sugar. He laughed when Dean wrinkled his nose in disgust and drank his (black, one sugar) coffee. Neither of them mentioned that Dean knew exactly how Castiel drank his, or that he almost always remembered these kinds of details just to make Castiel smile. It didn't need mentioning when they both knew so well.

Today, they're wandering downstairs with their empty mugs, and Dean keeps leaning in to kiss Castiel's bare shoulder, his throat, his cheek. He darts away every time Castiel tries to kiss him on the mouth, not because he's denying himself, but because he's teasing and it makes them both smile.

“Okay, I'm a sugar _addict_ and I can't handle the pair of you,” Gabriel drawls as they nearly trip over the last step, Dean outright laughing and Castiel chuckling softly as he gets in a quick peck to Dean's lips.

“Then go away,” Dean shoots back cheerfully. He slings an arm over Castiel's shoulders and plants a very deliberate kiss in his sleep-mussed hair. They're both still shirtless. Castiel sighs happily as their warmth bleeds together.

“No way,” Gabriel says, rolling his eyes. “I'm making progress with the Sammich.”

At first, Gabriel stuck around with the excuse that he wanted to make sure Castiel was okay. He alternated frequently between Gabriel, Loki, and some mixture of the two. Somewhere along in the second week, Dean decided that Loki was a badass. One month after Detroit, Dean declared Gabriel his 'buddy' and has been friendly with him since, though he made Gabriel swear not to kill anyone. Even if they were a dick.

Two months after Detroit, the truth came out. Yes, Gabriel was worried about Cas, but his real reason for staying was twofold. The first Castiel already suspected: Gabriel misses having a family. He's still part angel, and Castiel knows how much it hurts to be separated from the host. The second came as a surprise. The trickster has developed an obsession of sorts with Sam, and has made it his mission to gain forgiveness for what he did to Dean in Florida. Dean has told Cas the story as he's gleaned it, but Dean doesn't remember it firsthand. Sam so blatantly doesn't want to talk about it that Castiel has decided not to ask.

Castiel can understand Gabriel's motivation, but he also understands why Sam is so angry. He is unable to, as Dean would say, pick a team to root for.

“What kind of progress?” Dean asks, genuinely curious.

“I got him to laugh!” Gabriel announces, gleeful. “Then he stormed off, but hey. That's gotta count, right?”

He doesn't wait for an answer.

“I think he's fuming in the kitchen, so take all your sugary sweetness in there and see if you can soften him up for me.”

“Ha ha, you little shit,” Dean says. “Yeah, we'll do your dirty work.”

He turns toward the kitchen, arm still around Castiel's shoulders. The ex-angel goes quietly, happy in this moment but somehow also just a little afraid, like if he makes too much noise the moment will break and the void will flood back in.

_Hey._

Dean reaches out with his soul, wraps himself tightly around Castiel. _You're okay._

Castiel smiles and reaches back, tangling them together. Dean has learned quickly, so quickly that now they can easily communicate without speaking. Dean has even learned to find Castiel over distances, though that is much more difficult and he still can't reach much further than about twenty miles. Castiel thinks it's because he still has a sense of space even when it comes to his soul, but he understands more clearly now because he's starting to develop that, too.

Sam is indeed fuming in the kitchen. One hand has a stranglehold around a mug of steaming hot coffee, the other is tapping away at his laptop. He glances up when the pair comes in and gives them a genuine smile, relaxing his grip around his cup just a fraction.

“Aww,” he says, smile becoming a put-on smirk. “Aren't you just adorable.”

“Shut up, Sammy,” Dean says, but he's cheerful and does nothing more than kick his brother in the shin as they pass. “You got anything?”

“Yeah, maybe,” Sam replies. “Looks like we might have a vampire nest a few miles from here, but that's pretty much it. Mostly quiet.”

“Awesome.” Dean dumps his mug in the sink. Castiel does the same, leaning back against the counter, watching as Dean approaches and bends over Sam's shoulder, bracing himself with a hand on Sam's back while he's reading the page.

Three months. It's been three months since Castiel tore out his grace. He presses a hand to his chest, watches Sam lean into Dean as they read, and for a moment he can't believe they're all alive.

He grins, wide and open, remembering a few weeks after the apocalypse. Sam found him on the couch, watching TV to keep his mind off his missing grace. Dean was asleep, so Sam and Castiel sat together and went through five beers and six episodes of something called Doctor Who before Sam asked, in an oddly small voice, what would happen one day when they died.

“I don't understand,” Castiel said, and Sam explained that he was curious. He wanted to know how it worked. Would Dean and Sam be able to find each other? Would they find their parents? What would Castiel do -- was he even going to die?

At that point, Castiel was still wearing the amulet. It burned when he thought of it, of being separated from Dean by eternity. He'd smiled and lifted a hand to press against it.

It was the first time he understood that God never left them.

“Heaven is a complicated place,” Castiel explained. “You and Dean will likely share one. And someday, you will find the ones you love.”

“But what about you?” Sam seemed so genuinely concerned, almost upset, but Castiel never had the chance to answer.

“Cas will find me,” a voice said in the doorway. Both Sam and Cas turned to find Dean standing at there, grinning at them.

“Yes,” Castiel agreed, answering that grin with one of his own. The amulet burned hotter and then died down, and he knew that was right. They were bound. They would always find each other, just like Sam and Dean would.

 _Quit brooding and come join the vampire hunt,_ Dean teases, snapping Castiel from his memories.

The former angel smiles. _I enjoy watching you two._

_Oh yeah, 'cause we're a riot. Heyyy, you think you can turn into some kind of giant blade-swinging machine?_

Castiel rolls his eyes. _I sincerely doubt it. I can however light their nest on fire._

“Oh, _hell yeah,_ ” Dean says aloud, excited. He's practically bouncing at the very idea.

“What? What?” Sam looks between the two of them, glaring. “You're doing that silent-speaky thing again, aren't you?”

Castiel smiles. “Dean is excited because I can -- what did you say? -- 'flambé us some fangers'.”

“You can do that?” Sam lets out a triumphant _ha!_ at Castiel's nod. “That's great.”

“Elemental powers for the win!” Dean cheers. He claps Sam on the shoulder and straightens. “Come on, let's do this.”

While Dean and Sam take the Impala, Castiel chooses to shift into his raven form. Shifting has become even easier since he lost his grace, and it's a small comfort that he can still spread some manner of wings and fly.

Generally, Gabriel rides along in the Impala to pester Sam, but today he's flying with Castiel. His chosen shape is making it difficult for Castiel to concentrate on anything outside of his hysterics. Were any humans to look up, they would see what appeared to be a very drunken raven, weaving up and down through the air and giggling like mad.

Castiel doesn't think he's ever been _hysterically_ amused before. If he were in his human form, he's not sure he'd be able to stand.

 _I'll have you know this form is very advantageous!_ Gabriel chirps. _I can dodge_ way _better than you can, and I can hide a lot better, too!_

 _Ahaha -- you can barely keep up with me!_ It took a great deal of focus for Castiel to actually send his thoughts in any logical order. _If I wasn't going so slowly, you couldn't._

_Shut up, Cassie. I have ulterior motives, okay?_

_What possible motive could you have to shift into a Kinglet?_

_A_ gold-crowned _Kinglet. That makes me better than the other Kinglets, capiche? --And don't you dare tell Sam what form I'm in._

Castiel should have known Sam would have something to do with it. He swears he won't say a word, but he _does_ project the image to Dean, a skill Dean is only just beginning to grasp. He doesn't get everything, but he does get just enough that Castiel can feel the laughter bubbling up and threatening to spill over.

 _Tell Gabe he's evil,_ Dean says. _And awesome._

Castiel tells him neither. Gabriel's ego doesn't need any encouragement.

The hunt goes smoothly. It takes Dean and Sam only an hour to find out that a “gang” has been hiding out in a barn roughly a mile outside of town. They park the car a mile away and hike in, machetes at the ready just in case.

_You good, Cas?_

_Yes._ Castiel tucks in his wings and begins a swift dive towards the ground. _Gabriel, are there any humans inside?_

_Nope, you're all clear. Fire at will!_

Castiel opens his wings and lands, stumbling only slightly. He still hasn't quite gotten the hang of a physical landing. He shifts back to his human form and sees Dean standing a few feet away, lazily whirling his machete. Sam is at the opposite end of the barn, ready for any vampires that might escape.

“You good?” Dean asks.

Castiel nods once, but he hesitates. It would be easy for him to just summon the fire required. Gabriel has taught him a great deal about his abilities in the last few months, and Castiel has discovered he is especially adept with fire magic. However, he is also very good at shifting, and there's something he'd like to try that he suspects Dean would love.

So Castiel shifts. Into a medium-sized dragon.

 _Show off,_ Gabriel says with pride.

 _Dean, I would suggest moving much further back from the barn,_ Castiel says, ignoring Gabriel.

“You're a dragon. You're... Sam! _Are you seeing this?_ SAM!” Dean is wildly waving the machete with one hand and gesturing just as frantically with his free hand. He needn't have bothered. Sam is staring at Castiel with a slack jaw and wide, sparkling eyes.

_Dean._

“Yeah! Sorry!” Dean's face is split in a gaping grin, his eyes just as wide and awestruck as Sam's. He begins rapidly backing away from the barn, flapping a hand at his brother until Sam does the same. When Castiel decides they have reached a safe distance, he draws in a deep breath and releases it as flame.

No vampires escape. They don't even have time to scream.

The first thing Castiel hears when he's back in his human form is Sam shouting, “Please tell me you can keep that from starting a forest fire!”

Castiel rolls his eyes. He strides over to where Dean is standing with barely contained glee, machete abandoned on the ground. Sam is still eying the fire cautiously, but he keeps casting glances at Dean and shaking his head fondly.

“The fire won't spread, Sam,” Castiel assures him. “I'll put it out in a moment.”

“You were a dragon. Dude. You were a _dragon.”_ Dean's grin somehow manages to widen. He bounces up once on the balls of his feet and forces himself back down. “If I wasn't terrified to fly...”

Sam's hand shoots into the air. “I'll ride a dragon!”

Castiel sighs. Perhaps he shouldn't have done that after all.

He really did mean to put the fire out once he was sure the vampires were dead. But the brothers seem to be enjoying it, and Castiel knows he can contain the flames. The three of them wind up sitting on a log instead. Dean mentions no fewer than three times that they should have brought marshmallows.

Castiel almost doesn't spot Gabriel until he's landed on Sam's shoulder. The hunter flinches in surprise, and Dean freezes. With an effort that has even Castiel impressed Dean forces his expression into something neutral. He pretends to watch the fire.

“Hey there,” Sam says softly, once he's turned his head enough to see the Kinglet. “Dean,” he hisses. “Check it out.”

Dean glances over like he hasn't been watching the entire time. “Huh. Must have mistaken you for a tree.”

“You're hilarious. I'm surprised it hasn't gone further away from the fire.”

“Maybe it's tame,” Castiel suggests.

_Way to be my wingman, Cassie!_

_Maybe I just want to see this, as Dean would say, blow up in your face._

Slowly, Sam lifts up a hand towards Gabriel -- who immediately hops onto Sam's fingers and settles down. Sam brings him up closer to his face.

“It's so small,” Sam says, still speaking quietly like he's afraid he'll scare the bird. “There can't be anyone around for miles...” He trails off and looks at Dean with wide, hopeful eyes. Castiel thinks this must be the puppy dog look Dean has told him about. He can see why Dean has a hard time resisting it.

“Fine, whatever, but you better be the one feeding it,” Dean mutters.

Really, Sam should have known right then that something was wrong.

It isn't until they're back in the car that the Kinglet Sam has been cooing at vanishes, and in its place is Gabriel, curled up in Sam's lap with a pretentious look on his face.

Dean shrieks with laughter as Sam tries to climb over the seat to get away, and the car swerves with a squeal of tires. He ends up pulling over onto the side of the road to watch as Sam screams every curse word he knows in five different languages, and Gabriel yells, “You liked me all small and cute. I'm still small and cute!”

This, Castiel thinks with a smile, is definitely one of the good days.

~

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you don't know what a Kinglet is, [CLICK THIS LINK](http://intotheruins.tumblr.com/post/132942380070/gold-crested-kinglet-not-my-photo-i-got-it-off). You NEED this visual. Also this is totally karmascars fault. All the blame is with them, ALL OF IT. :D
> 
> If you liked it, leave me kudos or a comment? They seriously make my day. <3


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